One Day, One Night
by woodsse
Summary: New Directions and Blaine are caught up in the horror of a school shooting at McKinley. When Kurt becomes separated from the group, can he make his way back to save the people he loves? And what will the consequences be? Ensemble Cast - Klaine, Finchel...
1. Hallway

**Klaine centric, but with an ensemble of characters.**

**I hope you enjoy it as much as I loved writing it, and please review with any thoughts...but mainly, enjoy...**

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><p><strong>One Day, One Night<strong>

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><p>Kurt pulled his knees further into his chest, sickness rising again in his stomach, wanting to bury his face, but not daring to cover his eyes. His heart was racing; the blood booming so loudly in his ears. His eyes were overflowing with tears of fear and shock, sliding and dripping from his pale face onto his heaving chest. He held one bleeding hand in the other, laced around his legs. But he was silent, as silent as he could be, fighting the urge to bite through his own lip. The small jut of wall behind his bowed back was painted and cold, the small ridges left by the brush and rollers finding their way through his shirt to irritate and scratch. The floor was as it had always been, poured, rubbery, with that ugly, blotchy colour pattern.<p>

"School," he tried to tell himself. "This is school. This is...this is crazy, this can't b...b...be happening..." The classroom door his shoulder was leant against loomed over him as if to reinforce the statement. One dry heaving sob escaped Kurt's shuddering mouth before he could stop it, and he froze. Listening.

But at this moment there was silence. No shouting, no screaming. It was like that tiny period after the bell rings for a holiday, when everyone's gone except for the boy who forgot his gym bag. Kurt edged a centimetre to his left and risked a glance down the hallway, past the row of lockers in front of him. The light was fading outside and in; at this time of summer no-one bothered to turn on the lights, everyone was gone before it got dark. "But not today," thought Kurt. "Jesus, not today." Another tear escaped his eye and slid down his cheek. Any other day.

Nothing moved in the half light of the hallway before him. But the silence and stillness was terrifying; predatory. Because _he_ was out there somewhere. The man. Kurt didn't dare to turn around and glance around the corner behind him. To his left a few tiny embers of light suddenly flared in the fading light of the sun: broken glass, flung so far by the force of the bullet which had shattered the pane of the door to the room two down from Kurt's hiding place. The door that had been behind Kurt; behind him when he'd heard that unfamiliar voice at the opposite end of the corridor, turned, seen that unfamiliar face.

Kurt's mind roved over those few images in his mind. _The man's face_. He remembered the twisted pain of it. How his gut had swung to sympathy, how he'd put one foot forward to go to him and help him, how his mouth had opened for that first question: _"Hey, are you ok, sir?"_ He hadn't got past the 'h'. Kurt's mind opened before him as he saw again the man pull and lift from behind his back that awful looming shape, slowly, so slowly, and with such intent. Kurt hadn't known what it was at first. Not until the man aimed, and the glass over Kurt's shoulder had shattered into a million pieces. The _crack_ of the gun and the dead quavering ripple of the man's voice played over and over again in Kurt's ears: _"Boy. Where is everybody?"_

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><p><em>Blunt pains. They jar through both of Kurt's elbows as he flings himself down the corridor to his right. He hears the sound of himself hitting the floor, like an afterthought, as the echo of the shot shakes the entire building. Shock. Pale, hard shock judders through his mind, paralysing him. His eyes take in that he's on the floor, face to face with salmon pink squares and mint diamonds. But then there's a slight tremble in the floor beneath him. Two noises travel down the hallway and around the corner to his final resting place. Clack…clack…Shoes; hard shoes. Towards him. And the voice again. "Boy? I asked, where is everybody? I know your listening." It has an accent, not really from round here.<em>

_And suddenly Kurt's no longer frozen. He's crawling, on all fours, running. Away. But the shoes follow him, and he realises he won't make the corner before the man, and the gun, reach his corridor. He throws his head, left, right. There…Three strides ahead, on the right, an opening in the wall of lockers. Kurt stumbles the distance, and throws himself into it. And slams against the door. The_ thuddddd_ of it echoes just as the bullet did. The handle. He fumbles with it. Up. Down. Nothing happens; it's locked. He beats it with his fists, fear cramping at his muscles and his heart. His hand catches on the nameplate of the door; it tears a slice of skin from his palm's side._

_The shoes reach the bend. They crunch on the first shards of glass. This is it._

_But a door slams. Somewhere in the distance. In the distance above Kurt, above and behind the man, back down the hallways, up the stairs, and leaves silence behind it. Everyone has stopped moving._

"_Kurt?"_

_The shout is short and wary._

"_Kurt? Was that you? Are you ok?"_

_It distorts in reaching them, but Kurt knows this voice. Blaine. His reflection in the window of the door, pressed against the end of the lockers, begins hyperventilating. The voice moves slightly closer; still at some distance. Kurt's mind sees Blaine, jacketed, tied, shining, walking slowly down the corridor from the choir room, alone, glancing forwards and sideways at the empty, unfamiliar school._

"_Everyone's waiting. Where are you?"_

_In the short silence Kurt's heart beats twice. No, Blaine. Stop. There's a faraway creak that Kurt recognises. The cafeteria doors. Then the swoosh-thump as they close. Thank God._

_But what Kurt can't see is the light which ignites in the eyes of the man at that echoed fifth-from-last word. __**Everybody**__. Just what he wants. Just his chance. The glass squeals, cracks, tears at the floor as his booted feet twist to face the way he came, his arm swinging his precious implement after him. "Welcome me back, McKinley…"_

_And Kurt hears the whisper, and the changing direction of the shoes as they pass down the hallway, gradually loosing sound to the air. Fear, more fear than he'd ever felt before in his life, more than he'd felt in all these last seconds together, clogs his mind. Blaine. Everyone. He knew that the 'everyone' was only the kids from glee; they were the only ones left in school because they'd come in for a late rehearsal in this last week before Nationals, with Blaine coming along to listen. All he was doing down this hallway was going to get their music from the auditorium. Blaine. They were supposed to be going to dinner afterwards. Blaine. Kurt had been looking forward to it all week…Tears streamed freely down his face now. Almost overwhelmed with terror, Kurt began to shake. Blaine._

_He could hear nothing now, couldn't tell if the man was gone, if he had stopped, if he…if he…if he'd gone up the stairs…In his mind again he saw the short route from his hiding place, down the twists of the hallways to the stairwell, one flight up to the cafeteria, one hall length to the choir room…_

_No…no…he had to do something, had to warn them, had to get help…a gunman, a gunman in their school…the two words sounded so incongruous to his mind, to his world…Kurt had almost died. He felt weak, felt sick at the thought. An image of his jacket and bag, phone, keys, everything, comes forward in his mind. All left in the practice room. His mind starts to race out of his own control. A horrible taste rises in his throat; he can't get enough air. One noise comes from the far end of the corridor; a single step, like an afterthought. Then another. Prayers and curses fall silently from Kurt's trembling lips. His heart beats against his ribcage like it would tear through the skin. Panic and fear go to overwhelm him._

_Three shots ripped into the cream plaster of the wall above Kurt's head, shattering dust down upon him. Three beats. Three moments as the shoes moved away again. Kurt blacked out._

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><p>He didn't know how much later it was when he woke, curled against the door, blood lacing his hand. The hallway was silent. But one word filled his mind, and his heart. Blaine.<p> 


	2. Upstairs

"Did you hear that?" Noah Puckerman's voice rose above the chatter of the Glee club members as they sat in their usual seats, yawning and talking until Kurt came back with the music. It had been Rachel's idea, unsurprisingly, to fit in this extra session before they headed off to New York at the weekend, so they could sand the last corners off their set without Mr Schuester. Blaine sat to one side, watching and feeling slightly awkward. The last time he'd seen the glee club, they'd beaten him at Regionals, and the time before that he'd been blind drunk; neither great conversation starters. But they shared his passion for music, and seemed to care about Kurt almost as much as he did, and so he smiled as Tina and Mercedes tried to join him into their conversation over costumes. Rachel sat at the piano, chiming out arpeggios in an attempt at a warm up.

"Hey, guys, shush." Puck stood up this time, and the room fell silent. "What?" asked Finn, sitting with his arm draped over Quinn's shoulders, talking to Brittany, Artie, Santana and Sam. Rachel looked up with a smile, thinking he was trying to help her get the practice underway. "I dunno; I just heard something. Sounded like a bang or something." Lauren reached up from her seat beside him and pulled him down by the sleeve. Playing the crowd she simpered, "Aw, ickle Puckerman isn't afraid to be in the big, bad school all alone at night is he?" Puck began to redden; Lauren took the bait, squeezing his arm playfully. "Does he need Mr Shuie-ooie to be here to tuck him in and sing him a lullaby?" The team exchanged smiles and giggles. "No." Said Puck, trying to puff up manfully. "Just…thought…Kurt might have dropped the boxes or something…"

Blaine smiled, even Kurt's name played along with a feeling of warmth and happiness in his mind; and stood up, raising his hand bashfully. "I'll go look for him; you guys get on with your practice." He smiled again and winked at Rachel as he went to the door. "Don't get lost," she offered, over the piano. "Don't worry, I won't." He opened the door and stepped out into the deserted corridor. There was something creepy about schools with no students, especially when they were as clinical as McKinley. Nothing like the panelling, log fires and trappings of Dalton. Over his head he heard Finn's voice, "And don't spend all night making out in the hall." With a smirk he closed the door. If only.

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><p>Blaine figured as soon as he saw the servery and tables that he'd come into the wrong place. But everywhere was getting dark now, and in the twilight every hallway in McKinley looked the same to him. He'd never been to the choir room before tonight, only the auditorium and quad, and god knows how he'd managed to end up in the cafeteria. Why hadn't Kurt answered when he'd shouted? The whole muddle might have been avoided if he had. But Blaine guessed that Kurt was still in the auditorium, getting the music together, or that he had actually dropped everything and was too ashamed to be caught red handed as clumsy by his new boyfriend. Blaine smiled. Adorable.<p>

The dusk that was filtering in through the high windows drowned the room in gray half-light, with eerie shadows falling from the healthy eating boards and cutlery racks. "Spooky," observed Blaine's mind. But with an idea, he moved forwards into the room. Maybe there was a way out of here which led to the outside; if he could get to that concrete courtyard area, or the front of school, then he thought he could remember how to get to the auditorium. _Or just go back and admit you have no idea where you're going?_With a quick thought that he was as stubborn as his boyfriend (he loved that word) Blaine dismissed the idea and walked on into the building.

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><p>"Okay…well, let's just start again? From the top." Rachel was starting to get annoyed now. Kurt had been gone almost ten whole minutes, Blaine four. The rehearsal would be pointless if they didn't start soon. Where were they? She ran her fingers through a G major scale: "La-la-la-la-la-la-la".<p>

"I-don't-see-the-point-in-this," sang Quinn, pouting into the distance and stroking Finn's hand, which was still across her shoulders. Rachel moved her hands up a tone and pretended she hadn't heard; "La-la-la-la-la-la-la". And again and again. They were almost finished for the second time.

"Oh really," Mercedes joined in, standing up; "I've had enough." She strode towards the door, throwing it open. "Where the hell ha…"

She was cut short. Cut short by three undeniable sounds that exploded into the room through the now open door through the humid evening air. One after the other after the other. Three gunshots.

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><p>At the sound of the first shot Blaine froze, scared that he'd set of some alarm, or knocked a pile of trays over or something. But the sound came from too far away. And sounded weird, like…<p>

_CCCCrrrrrrack_…the second shot rang out. The blood drained from Blaine's face…like a gun…What the hell was going on? He began to run, turning back towards the door, tripping over loose chairs and trashcans in the darkness. Kurt. He had to find Kurt; now. But he'd only made up half the distance before, once more, _CCCCrrrrrrack_, the gun fired again, the boom echoing and amplifying the space. The sound hit Blaine like a fist. He tripped again, over himself this time, and fell to his knees, blistering them on the rubbing lino. His mouth had fallen open. His eyes were wide. Kurt.

Once more he scrambled to his feet, brogues sliding on the glossy floor. He had to run. He reached the door and threw it open, but then stopped, his brain getting the better of him for a split second. He listened. There was a stairwell across the corridor from him; he hadn't noticed it on his earlier search. The doors to it were open. Had the sound come from there? He couldn't hear anything now. But the silence terrified him. Silence was all you had when you were dead. Fear closed on him. Kurt couldn't…no…

He couldn't stand or listen any more. Without faltering, Blaine threw himself across the corridor and down the stairway.


	3. Moving

Kurt was so ashamed of himself for his cowardice. He couldn't stop crying, couldn't break out of his folded up, protective shell. "Get the hell of a grip…" he whispered to himself, his voice reminding him scarily of Karofsky. He ground his fist into his forehead, and suddenly he was standing up, back pressed painfully against the shield of the lockers. He hastily wiped his face and streaming eyes with the back of his sleeve. God, he must look disgusting. Squeezing his eyes shut, Kurt told himself to shut up, for one second, to stop caring about himself. He had to go get help.

With his eyes closed the choking fear seemed to loosen a little. In the darkness Kurt forced himself to picture the school, all the ways in and out. He couldn't make the main doors, they were right down…that…that corridor. But then next set of doors were all the way down at the auditorium, on the wrong side of school for the main road. He'd have to run for a good five minutes before he found anyone. He didn't think his tight chinos could take it, or his racketing heart. A shuddering sigh forced its way out of his lungs, rattling the combinations on the lockers. Think, Kurt.

He made a slit of light between his eyelashes and nudged his head back over his shoulder to glance down towards the corner. There was nothing there, only the peeling junior artwork and club posters. But then he saw it. The sign pointed over the broken glass, glowing slightly in the silvering light. Gym. Locker Room. Kurt's mind flashed back again. That one time when he'd been on the football team. They'd gone out onto the pitch through the back of the locker room; there was a fire door there or something. And if he got round the side of the building, then he could get straight to the nearest houses and find help. Ok. That's what he had to do. Go through the door with the broken glass.

Kurt turned back into his hiding place, closing his eyes again. He ran a hand over his sweating forehead and through his thick hair. Dust and flecks of plaster peppered down onto the floor. He didn't dare look up at the three gouged holes in the wall above his head. Ok. He breathed deeply, once, twice…three times.

With his eyes still screwed almost shut, as low and as fast as he could manage, Kurt broke from behind the lockers. The twenty metres, which had passed so quickly first time, now felt like at eternity. But then he was there, skidding on the biggest shards of glass as he came to a staggering halt. He grabbed the handle, painfully straining his neck so that he wouldn't look at anything that might be behind him. He couldn't look. He mustn't look. He had to run. He had to get help. The handle clicked mercifully underneath him. The door was open. More glass grated as he pushed it inwards, inch by inch. And then with a step Kurt was through. The cold smell of showers and towels and sweat hit him in the face. Head down, he ducked into the darkness, shying away from the dagger of light carving through the broken pane. His breath came in gasps, rasping through his nose, his back found the familiarity of a wall and his legs gave way again. The tiles beneath him were freezing; even the air was different, stiller, in here. Kurt flinched as a dull, muffled _thudddd_ beat through the shattered door, followed by a heavier sound. But he couldn't afford to stop.

Reaching out both hands he stumbled blindly for the benches he saw in his mental picture, leading from one end of the room to the other, right down the centre. The sting of hard painted metal bit into the cut on his right hand, followed by blunt wood. Kurt crawled along, hands pressed to the bench, until it ran out under his fingers. He straightened up. Right; he wanted to turn right. Arms outstretched, he found lockers on both sides of him, walked forward until he passed a row on his right. A strange white shape loomed at hip height in front of him. Right; a laundry cart. And behind it quietly glowed that awkward green man and door, the emergency exit. Kurt allowed himself a tiny smile of success; he'd got this far. Sliding to the side, he edged around the big cart, rolling it with a firm push back the way he'd come. If anyone wanted to follow him, they'd have to get round that too. He turned back to the door and took hold of the metal bar. But before he could push down to open it, a low moan came from just to his left, right by where the cart had come to a rest. Kurt froze. He wasn't alone.

There was silence for a few seconds. Kurt felt the cool metal under his fingers. He pressed gently down for a few millimetres, but the door gave a horrible groan, followed by another sound from the floor feet away behind the basket. Kurt paused, willing the noise to be in his own head. But then a voice that was not his own murmured in the darkness: "Wh...who's there?" It sounded weak and scared. And it definitely was not the voice of the man with the gun. Kurt backed slowly away from the door, gradually releasing the bar. Taking hold of the pale sides of the basket, he drew it carefully backwards, towards the door. The spear of light falling from the window reared up onto the dark lockers a metre away, but between Kurt and it, blinking and slumped against the metal doors, cradling the torn and bloodstained arm of his precious team jacket in a huge hand, sat Dave Karofsky. Kurt blinked furiously, trying to adjust his eyes to the almost darkness, not knowing what to say. A small fist of hate worked its way into the stream of fear flooding his body. The boy on the floor blinked again too, and unsteadily, stiffly, almost painfully, lifted his head to see the face that stood above him. Their eyes took in each other for a few seconds; Kurt absolutely speechless. Then the bigger boy's head fell again, eyes closing wearily, chest rising, but with hand deliberately keeping his arm still. "Ladyboy, why'd you have…have to be the one person…?" He grimaced in pain, obvious now. "What's…? Who was…? I was only…" Each statement faded quickly to silence. He groaned again. His voice was too loud; he was making too much noise.

With a glance around the room, pushing the confusion to one side of his brain, Kurt squatted down next to the bully. His hands itched on his knees, prickling with tension. Kurt took a deep breath; the smells of damp and bodies mingling and greasing his throat. Reaching out one hand to the boy's injured elbow, which he watched but did not flinch away from, Kurt whispered, "Wha…what happened?"


	4. Struck

Running too fast, Blaine skidded on the dark steps and stumbled against the hard wall, his jacket shoulders catching on the coarse paint. But hurling his arms to the side, he pushed off again, turning the bend in the stairs and almost throwing himself down the last ten steps. The door at the bottom was also propped open; Kurt had to be down here somewhere. Blaine hurtled through it, charging left out of nothing but instinct. These hallways looked identical to those he'd been wandering minutes ago. But then he turned the first corner and all that changed. Fifty metres or less in front of him the floor was shimmering, powdered with broken glass. He skidded to a halt, squinting away at the dark hole left in closed door. What the hell…? He took one slow pace forwards, swallowing. Kurt? He wanted to call out again, but the deep silence seemed to compel his tongue; nothing would come.

And then panic; like an ice cold finger, ran the length of Blaine's spine. He'd seen something. In the furthest corner of his eye. Something dark. Behind him. He froze, and so did the hazy shape. The fear in his stomach felt like it was solidifying, dragging him slowly to the ground. "One…" he counted in his head, "Two…Thr…" Blaine span and ducked, looking to take whatever was behind him by the legs. But his eyes didn't even have time to register the man's figure. All he saw was the two swinging hands and the shadowed weapon. Then darkness.

With a sickening _thuddddcraaccckk _the base of the gun hammered into Blaine's temple. The man watched with no emotion as the boy collapsed in front of him, his head falling with a thud onto the man's boots, glossy waves of hair spilling to one side. Deftly, and with both hands, the stranger turned the gun around.

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><p>All they could hear was the sound of each other's breathing. Finn's back was beginning to hurt; he'd been crouched too long in the same position, with shoulders pressed to Sam and Mike. Artie lay behind them, held against Brittany, his chair forgotten amongst the empty plastic seats. Someone swallowed a cough. Tina was sobbing softly, her head against Mike's shoulders. Lauren silently grasped Puck's hand as she sat between Rachel and Mercedes, tears welling behind her clear glasses; this was no time for acting the badass. Holding each other Quinn and Santana gently rocked backwards and forwards in the tiny space they had. No one said a word. No one had spoken since Rachel's shattering scream. Not since Sam had grabbed all three cheerleaders together and thrown them under the screen of the piano. Not since Finn had lunged for Mercedes, slamming the door and hitting the lights in the process, or since Mike had lifted Artie, seized Tina, and bundled all three of them into that tiny dark space. Not since Puck had ordered the guys to form a shield around the girls. And there they all crouched, or lay, or sat, pressed against each other under the piano, not daring to whisper, no one daring to voice what they had just heard.<p>

But then Mercedes gave a quavering choke, and said the exact thing in all of their minds; "Oh…oh my G-g-g-od…Kurt and Blaine."

"Shhhhss," Finn tried to sound soothing and confident, but his voice cracked just as much. He was glad to be facing outwards into the room. The two parallel streams of tears shone silver on his cheeks in the light from the high windows. His brother.

Minutes passed. Puck and Mike, at either ends, stared desperately at all they could see of the two doors. No lights passed in the hallway outside, nothing moved. Every second Puck convinced himself he could hear footsteps, or bangs, or…god…more shots. As one the group flinched at a thud, echoing down the hall, from about where the stairs emerged for the cafeteria. But then silence again.

Suddenly, a bright green glow lit the glossed underside of the piano. "No, Santana…" came the harsh whisper from Artie, "Someone'll see." Finn glanced over his shoulder; Santana had pulled her phone from her top, opening a blank text. "I don't care. We have to get some help, somehow. Can you message 911?" "No," offered Puck. Santana nodded; he would know. "Well, what then? Text someone else? They'll never believe me." "She's right," Rachel spoke up, her eyes never leaving the one side of Finn's face she could see, which had begun to tremble slightly. "Well, we just have to phone then," said Santana, though her eyes darted wildly to betray any coolness in her voice, and she started to dial. But then she paused, and glanced up. Everyone was watching with her now, watching the door closest to Mike, and the slightly lighter rectangle of darkness in the black. There was no sound, no change. "There'd be a light if someone was out there," Quinn tried, matter-of-factly. Santana nodded and pressed dial. "You don't really need a light to feel safe when you've got a gun," said Sam.


	5. Cuts

"…the damn door just explodes in my face. And I dunno…ah Christ that hurts; stop shaking it, fag…" The insult bounced painfully off Kurt's ears. "I guess…I guess I passed out or…I dunno how I got back here…" Dave's gruff growl hardly rose above the background _hummm_ of the ventilation, and the words slipped over one another in Kurt's mind as he made himself stare at the tattered scraps of bloodied sleeve. He couldn't take anything else in. "Listen," Karofsky's tone changed slightly, and Kurt heard with mild disgust the effort it was taking him to sound civil, "are…are you ok? What the fuck happened out there? Why are you even in school?"

The last question cut underneath Kurt's stupor. His friends. Blaine. "We had choir practice…there was this guy. He had a gun…I…I was…" he mumbled, changing the subject. "I need to get your jacket off and try and bind your arm up or it's just gonna keep bleeding…" Karofsky's pale face managed a weak sneer of repulsion. "Take my clothes off, fairydust? No freakin' way." Kurt decided not to give him the satisfaction of a reply, but his mind streamed insults; his homophobic 'friends' weren't even here now, he was insulting no-one more than himself by concreting the stereotypes. They both knew the truth. But Kurt forced them aside. Acclimatising to the darkness he peered around, bleary eyed, for what he knew must be nearby, somewhere. There. He crawled a few feet to his right and dragged a half-clean towel from under a bench. Wrenching it with his teeth, as quietly as he could, he tore it into inch-wide strips, jerking pain into his jaw to keep away the pictures of that gun anywhere near anyone he loved. And with each satisfying tear the anger inside him rose slightly. What the hell was he doing, stopping to help this…this…he didn't have a word strong enough…when his friends, his love, was out there at risk? Like Karofsky would have given him a second thought had their roles been reversed. But then, out of the blue, his father's voice spoke up in his head, some words that he'd said a while back. _"You're the better man, Kurt"_. Huh. Then why did he feel like running? Or crawling into a little ball like a tiny kid and just waiting until this nightmare was over?

"Hey, Kurt?" Dave's voice had softened of its own accord this time. He'd realised what Kurt was doing with the towel. The tears began to flow down Kurt's cheeks again. One sob wracked his entire body, head to toe. But he turned his face to look at the bully. "Where were you going? You were heading out the back, right?" Kurt couldn't answer. He tore the last strip from the towel and shuffled forwards to the other boy's side again. Karofsky didn't move for a second. He was sizing this kid up, for real, for the first time. He wasn't as dumb as he had the others believe; not just an idiot like Azimio. But he'd learnt it was easier to get away with…stuff…if the others thought he was really slow. Stuff like getting caught staring during practice, keeping so many copies of Men's Health but only looking at the pictures, or never noticing girls. He shifted painfully on the floor. His arm and shoulder hurt like hell, and he had no idea how he was gonna get his jacket off without fainting again. Not that he'd let himself do that in front of Hummel. But that wasn't important right now. He'd figured it out. "The others are still in here, aren't there?" Kurt couldn't do anything but nod. "Hudson, Evans, Puckerman, those cheerleaders, and the douches? All of them? And you were going to get help?" Again, a nod. Dave closed his eyes and gave a silent groan of pain. "Ok, look. My cell is in my bag…somewhere over by the door, I guess; I must've dropped it…before. Anyway, go get it and we can call in the cops. Quick."

Kurt blinked. Once. Twice. The boy's face was totally sincere. His dad's voice piped up again. _"Stop wasting your bloody time!"_ Right…Kurt turned and crawled away again, trailing a thread of white behind him. Glass cut through the knees of his trousers, but at the moment he felt no pain. Help was coming. Hold on Blaine.

He hit the bag before he properly saw it, but it was easy to recognise. It stank like nothing he'd ever smelt before; worse even than Brett, that kid from English, who smelt homeless. Luckily it didn't take much searching, and only one wretch, to find the phone, tucked inside a trainer. He pulled it out and slowly stood up, looking at it, then flipped it open. This was all he had to do. All he had to do and then everything would be ok. But then a sharp hiss from behind him brought him round. "What the hell are you doing? Get out of the way!" And Kurt's head snapped up. Karofsky was right. All the light coming through the broken pane was falling straight on his face. He could see almost the full length of the corridor. He took one step backwards; but then stopped again. And squinted. For what felt like the billionth time that night, his heart turned to ice within him. It felt like something had just disappeared out of view, shying into the shadows around the far corner. Leaving something behind.

"Homo; fucking wake up!" Kurt almost collapsed backwards, skittering until he fell down onto the bench, the changing light sending orbs bursting across his vision, the cell phone clattering out of his hand, useless. There was something on the floor down there. Something…Jesus…something in a navy blazer and grey trousers. His heart ripped in two and Kurt felt every single pain of it. Blaine.


	6. Sense

The man had stood over the boy for a good few minutes now. The strange warmth of his head had seeped through his boots; he could feel it on his feet. A slight draught waved down the hallway, catching those splayed brown locks and gently rippling them. His hands were still firm set on the gun, sights trained against the strange navy jacket, right over the heart. His finger stroked the trigger. But something didn't quite fit in his disfigured mind. Taking one hand off the heavy weapon he began to bite at the knuckle of his first finger. What was it?

He took one step backwards, head cocking feverishly to one side. The boy's forehead slid off his shoes and onto the floor with one more _thudd_. A ribbon of blood dragged after his foot; little rivulets splitting from it in either direction. Disgusted, the man lifted his foot and shook it, like a dog. Tiny drops scattered onto the walls. Moving round to the side of the motionless body, he crouched down, like the hunter inspecting his kill. He'd seen something, something that was making him doubt, when the boy had spun towards him. Gently he nudged the barrel of the gun under the chest and lifted. One arm had been trapped underneath him as he'd fallen. The man grabbed it with his free hand and drew it out, pushing it to the side. The limp fingers flicked into the pooling blood. The man shuffled on his haunches, twisting the gun further, lifting the body even more. There. The breast of the jacket emerged into the half light. This kid wasn't from McKinley. There was some weird crest, and a tie. The man snorted to himself; private school. Without a second look his yanked out his gun and turned on his heel, heading for the stairs the kid had charged down. He'd hid in the shadows behind the door when he'd heard the pounding feet overhead last time. But not now. _Everyone_…said the constant voice in his head.

* * *

><p>The phone slithered across the tiled floor until it almost reached Karofsky. But he was watching the pain on Kurt's face. "What?" He hissed. "What is it? Is <em>he <em>out there? Jesus…" Kurt's head was shuddering, eyes staring horribly wide at the floor, eyelids flickering independent of each other. Putting his uninjured arm down on the floor, Dave tried to lever himself up. What the hell had the kid seen? His legs slipped once, twice, on the greasy floor, but his back slowly slid up the racks of lockers. His head spun with pain. "Kurt?" He asked again, at as close a point to standing as he could manage. The boy's mouth was open now, mouthing something that Karofsky couldn't hear, his eye staring pleadingly. "What? What are you saying?" Tears bubbled in the corners of those eyes, streaming down either side of his nose, over those…those lips. Karofsky shut his eyes. God; have some control. But in the darkness his ears finally picked up the word. "Bbb…Bbll….Bl…aine…"

Dave opened his eyes slowly. God, the kid was only thinking about his stupid Brokeback partner. With effort he pushed off his leaning position to move against the locker closest to Kurt, and bent slowly to retrieve his cell from the floor. He let his voice harden to his normal tone as he flipped the screen up. "Bloody typical. Jesus, I thought even someone as Pride gay as you might have been able to forget about it for a minute when something like this is going…Whoa! Kurt!" He threw out his arm instinctively, getting only a handful of his shirt before it slipped from his grasp; voice rising to almost a shout, as the younger boy suddenly rose and fled towards the door. Dave swore under his breath and stumbled after him. "Kurt? What the fuck are…?" But then, his eyes falling over the top of the boy's head, through the broken glass, he saw that same sight at the other end of the corridor.

Struck fully dumb, Karofsky could only watch as Kurt threw himself around the door and down the godforsaken hallway.


	7. Call

At first Dave tried to follow Kurt out the door. But two steps told him he wouldn't last the distance. He turned, vision swimming, and sank down onto the bench Kurt had just left. His huge chest heaved up and down; this was more than he'd ever had to deal with, more than his fabricated bravado could take. He heard a slight, scraping sound, as Kurt reached the other end of the hallway. He had to give it to him, the kid was brave, running like that to save someone without caring for himself. Dave leaned out and squinted down the corridor again (no one at school knew that he actually needed glasses, and wore them pretty much full time at home); he couldn't make out who the shape was. Kurt was kneeling next to him, or her, or it…but after that he could make out nothing. Shit. Pain rippled down through the gashes in his arm, most of them still studded with glass, one, the highest right by his shoulder, was ominously circular and dark. With another gasp of pain he made to support it with his other again, and then suddenly remembered the cold weight in his hand.

It took two seconds for him to flip the phone open and dial the three numbers, then five more agonising beats for someone to pick up. "Hello?"

"9-1-1, Emergency response. Police, ambulance or fire?" Karofsky blinked a few precious seconds away; the words were harsh and real and seemed to echo endlessly off the stark walls. He sank his voice to a small whisper; but in his mind it made everything he said sound like another of the stupid rumours he passed on every day.

"Umm…um…police and ambulance, I guess…I mean, please…I…ah…" The line clicked; a woman's voice came through.

"Sir? You require both police and ambulance response; is that correct?"

"Yeah…yeah…listen, I'm in a school…there's this guy, with a gun…and there's other people…I…what…someone's lying, he's lying on the floor and…"

"Sir; are you at William McKinley High School, Lima, Ohio?"

"I…yeah. How did you kn…?"

"Can I ask what part of the building are you in?"

"Um, downstairs, in the boy's locker room. But, please, listen, there's someone hurt." Where was Hummel? What was he doing? He was right out in the open.

"Ok, sir, the police and ambulance crews are already on their way. We received a call approximately five minutes ago about the same situation. They're on their way. Can you confirm to me how many casualties there might be?"

"Wait, what? From who?" Some sort of sliding, dragging noise echoed from down the corridor.

A brief scrabbling at the other end of the line. "A Miss Lopez. Can I ask your name, sir?"

"Karo…I mean, David…its David." Santana had dialled 911; did that mean they were ok or what?

"David, I'm Helen. Everything's under control, ok? Just explain to me everything that's going on. Are you ok to speak?"

"What do you mean? Were they…were the others ok? They're not with us; they had practice. But Kurt came down and now…now…" His lips felt huge and stupid; his mind couldn't make the words work.

"I don't know David. But from what I can see there were no confirmed casualties reported in that call. How many other people are with you David?"

"Just…just one. No. Wait. Two."

"Two. Ok, David, can you give me their names?"

"Um, Kurt Hummel. And I don't know the other…they're in the hallway; Kurt's trying to help…but, please, you have to get here quick…"

"They'll be there any minute David, any minute, ok? Just hold on here for me. Do you know where the intruder is?"

Simple answer. "N-nnn-no."

"Alright, alright. David…" Karofsky's teeth had begun to chatter in his skull; he felt himself crying like a baby. Everything was becoming realer and realer by the second. Where was Kurt? He wanted Kurt back. He didn't want to be alone. "David, you're not alone; definitely not alone. Just be brave for me; can you do that?" Had he said that out loud? She was treating him like a little kid, like some stupid, bloody little kid, but that was exactly how he wanted to be treated. He was so scared.

"Yeah…ahh…" He couldn't contain this stupid blubbering, but it was shaking his shoulder worse than ever.

"David, are you hurt?" He tried to stand up, but didn't dare move into the blade of light from the door; where was Kurt?

"David?"

He heard his own name, said in that weird form that only his father used, but the other words made no sense.

"No…no, you don't understand…someone else is hurt. Kurt went outside. He went to go get them, but he hasn't come back…he found me earlier…I…I think I've been shot…" Deep in his own mind he knew that he made no sense, but the words seemed important. He had to say them. The last one seemed to leave a trail of pain through his mouth by just saying it. And Dave said no more. Because he'd managed to stagger to the door, physically pushing aside his own fear, and now pulled it open, the phone lying forgotten on the bench.

And there, less than two metres away, was Kurt's shining face, broken with anguish. He staggered step after step, making almost no progress. But Dave wasn't watching him. Because in Kurt's weak arms, hardly used to carrying more than his satchel, lay a person, the one from the end of the corridor. Dark brown hair was splayed over his shirtsleeve, the face turned into his chest, in a dark navy jacket, with grey trousered legs supported awkwardly in the bend of his elbow. Something bright red had soaked into the front of Kurt's shirt, blossoming from behind the boy's head. And the cogs in Karofsky's head began to turn again; he recognised that uniform. Jesus…this was the boyfriend, the whatshisname…but what was he doing here? Kurt hadn't said anything abou…But he stopped himself. Because somewhere in the distance a siren sounded and then cut out. No time for thinking. Dave rounded the door unsteadily, but then reached out his good arm and lifted the weight of the boy…Dean, or something like that, was his name, wasn't it? Or Ben? And together, silent except for both of their tears, unconcealed from each other now, Kurt and Dave carried the terrifyingly light and limp figure through the door, collapsing as one into the space to the left of the door, which closed behind them with a splintering click.

"I…is…is he…?" Karofsky, in no form of himself, could finish that question. He drew his arm away and sat back, stunned again, against the wall.

"No. No, no, nn-no." Kurt stuttered; but it wasn't an answer, it was a prayer. Cradling Blaine like an infant, with all the tenderness in the world, he slowly tipped his head away from his chest. The face was so pale; those parts which weren't stained crimson. Kurt's tears fell onto the beautiful face, mottling the already congealing blood. With one long finger he nudged the fringe aside, sweeping the clumped curls away. "Please, Blaine. Please, please, please…"


	8. Directions

"Shouldn't we have barred the doors, or something?" Being scared was making Quinn restless; she wanted to be back in control.

"With what, genius?" The same apparently made Lauren angry.

'It's like Rachel's party all over again…' Commented Finn to himself. He himself hadn't managed to move on to any other emotion that absolute terror. But not for himself; well, at least mostly not for himself. It was for everyone. What would happen if one of them got hurt? How could they go on after something like that? And what if it was his mistake that made it happen? Maybe Quinn was completely right, maybe they should have piled up the chairs, books, music stands, whatever, against the doors. Or maybe they should have just made a run for it at those first shots, instead of crouching here in the darkness like sitting ducks. He was supposed to be the leader here, the co-captain. So why did he feel so useless?

There was some awkward moving behind him, legs tangling in legs, backs against backs as someone changed positions. He felt a hand on his shoulder. "Hey…" It was Rachel. No; he couldn't think or talk about their relationship now, or whatever stunt she was trying to pull. He was with Quinn; they were happy, end of story. Finn didn't turn round. "Look, Kurt's going to be ok, alright?" Pain came rushing right back to the front of Finn's brain. Kurt. His eyes overflowed again. How long had he managed to go without thinking of the one thing that might completely crush him? What the hell was Burt going to think of him?

Rachel failed to pick up on the shame underlying the terror in Finn's face. "I bet he's just holding tight somewhere, humming showtunes? Or…or he's already outside, gone to get help, playing the hero, and he's going to be right out there waiting for us when the police get here, ok?" Finn sniffed loudly, turning it into a firm cough to hide a sob. The police. Yeah. How long ago had Santana called them? He looked at his watch, but couldn't see the hands in the darkness. It was late; really late. What was his mum thinking? Were they all supposed to be back by now? Burt wouldn't be worried yet, Kurt was supposed to be going out to dinner with Blaine after this; he'd been given a late curfew and everything. He'd been looking forward to it all so much; it was all he'd bloody talked about at breakfast.

Even without light Finn knew what was directly opposite him across the floor of the choir room. He'd spent those last fading moments of daylight absorbing the sight as best he could. It was Kurt's bag and jacket, abandoned on his chair. He'd thrown them both down, so carefree that he didn't even bother to stop and precisely fold his jacket as customary, skipping onto Blaine's lap as the pair sat down, and then even volunteering to run and get the music. Finn could have hit himself; why hadn't he offered to go fetch it instead? Or why shouldn't he have volunteered in Blaine's place to go look for Kurt? His mind showed him the image of Blaine winking innocently at Rachel as he'd left the room. What had he shouted? Something about not taking forever, or making out, or something just as stupid, some other gay joke? Without thinking, he took hold of the hand which still rested on his shoulder. "I'm so sorry Kurt."

At the same instant, everyone's heads snapped up. Along the corridor, once more, came the sound of the swinging cafeteria doors. No one breathed. Then all kinds of sounds began; crashes, a voice shouting, more crashes, one, then two shots. "Do…do you think…is that him?" Tina whispered. No one needed to answer, as the noises continued. "What's he doing?" It was Brittany's turn to voice what every one of them was thinking. Mike was the first one to realise. "He hasn't found anyone." 'Or hasn't found anyone _else_…' commented Finn's mind. "He's angry; he's freaking out. I guess he was planning to take the whole school down or something, and there's nobody here." "Psycho…"muttered Santana. "Ssshuush," murmured Quinn, taking her eyes from the door and returning them to the burning gesture of Finn holding Rachel's hand over his shoulder. The noises continued for minutes. And then, as suddenly as flicking on a light, they were silenced, as out over the distant night came the wail of sirens.


	9. Hope

Dave staggered back from the showers, a splashing pail banging against his knee as he fought for balance. Walking was gradually getting easier, even as the pain in his shoulder was growing, minute by minute. "Here," he said gently, placing it on the floor next to Kurt, who still sat with Blaine's body resting against him, with his head on his chest, their legs mixed together. The poor kid was at breaking point, Dave could see. Kurt hadn't spoken a word to Karofsky since they'd come back into the room, but his mouth was constantly moving, babbling nonsensically and inaudibly into Blaine's ear. Dave had no idea what to do. First he'd tried reaching out to help; he could remember a tiny bit of the first aid training he'd taken as a kid in some scouts group or something, but Kurt had batted his hand away, wrapping himself round his unmoving…boyfriend…God, even after everything, the word still made him feel a little sick. Then Kurt had dragged the two of them, as one, over to the wall, leaning against it and resuming his sobbing monologue. Desperate to feel like he was doing something, he'd gone to get the water, but that was a useless act; what did it achieve? Christ, he hadn't even been able to check if the kid was still breathing. His stomach turned another notch at the thought of what it would mean if he wasn't.

David crouched to the ground again, keeping a metre's distance from Kurt. He shut his eyes, trying to control the pounding in his own head that was returning. "Man up, idiot," his inner voice spoke up to him. "This is up to you now." Think. Think. And he opened his eyes, turning to look behind himself. An idea; yeah, it might work. Crawling on all-threes, with his right arm pressed tight to his chest, Karofsky made his way towards the back of the locker room once more. And there they still were. He swept up the makeshift bandages Kurt had torn from that towel; how long ago that seemed in his head, and shuffled back towards the door.

"Kurt?" The boy's eyes lifted slightly, taking in the strange white offering held out to him. "Look, we need to clean Blaine up, ok?" Dave took one in his hand and dipped it in the cold water, wringing the spare drips from it, which plonked back into the pail. "Look." He passed it forward, and Kurt reached out to take it. Turning back, he seemed to get the idea, placing it as gently as a kiss on Blaine's forehead and gingerly moving it back and forwards. Karofsky took up another in his hand, dipping it in the water just the same, and crawled forwards. "Kurt?" This time the boy did not look up, but Dave was sure he was listening. "Can I help too?" The tiniest nod.

This was all the chance he needed. Dave leaned in closer, placing the cloth in his injured hand for a moment and gathering a palm sized shard of glass in his good hand, as careful as he could be not to cut himself. Trying to match Kurt's look of intent, he bent forward, raising the glass so that it was hidden in his hand but balanced an inch or so from Blaine's mouth. He counted breathlessly in his head. One. Two. Three.

Slowly he sat back on his heels and held the shard out into the light. Kurt was watching now, mumbling again and not understanding, tears washing away as much of the blood as the water.

Then Dave let out a laugh; and another, and a third, a smile spreading across his face despite of himself. The glass was frosted with a film of vapour. He turned back to Kurt, dropping the splinter to the floor. "He's breathing. Kurt, he's breathing. He's gonna be ok."

Kurt didn't say anything. No more mumbling. He just looked into Karofsky's eyes for a deep minute. Then, laying the now magenta strip on the floor beside the bucket, he picked up another and went back to nursing Blaine, dabbing at his hairline, scared to do anything more that might cause pain or harm to the vision before him. But as he did it he slid his free hand from the side of Blaine's face where it had been resting, first placing it into Dave's motionless one. A beat past, and Kurt gently squeezed, hoping to convey everything he absolutely couldn't say.

Then he slid it out again, and reaching down, slipped it into Blaine's open palm, running their fingers between each other and closing their hands. Gently and fervently he ran small circles with the pad of his thumb on the back of Blaine's palm. And something inside him told him that he felt the fingers, every so weakly, squeeze back.


	10. Help

"Your turn," said Kurt, leaning back from Blaine with a shivering sigh. He felt exhausted, how long had he spent crying? With another gentle squeeze he released his hand from Blaine's, feeling the weak fingers resist slightly. Kurt couldn't stop himself from leaning forward; "I'm still here Blaine," he ran his finger down that cheek, from dark, almost purple eyelids, to stubbled chin. "When you get better, I'm definitely teaching you to shave properly...But I'm still here, ok? I'm not going anywhere; I'm never going anywhere. But right now I need to help Dave, alright?" He could of sworn he felt the fingers pull back stronger still at the mention of Karofsky's name. He didn't care that he was sitting just across the room, leaning against a row of lockers. He didn't feel reconciled to the bully, but then again, he couldn't exactly maintain his anger at him. However much harm he'd done in the past, this guy had helped him get Blaine back, at least in part. Kurt owed him something for that.

Dave had lifted his head at the mention of his own name. "My turn for what?" His voice was thin and strained; nothing except sitting on the floor seemed possible at the moment, whatever Kurt had in mind for him, he was sorry, but it would be impossible. About five minutes or so ago, or it could have been an hour, time was slipping past at strange paces, he had almost asked Kurt if they should think of doing what the kid had been about to do all that time ago, slipping out the back door? But then Dave had realized this was impossible. He could hardly move, Kurt could hardly lift Blaine, and at any rate the poor kid probably shouldn't be moved. No; they were stuck until someone came for them. At that point, Dave had made his goal to be conscious when that time came. Now all he could think was that he wished that help would get here soon.

Kurt shuffled forward on his knees, ignoring the stinging in them from the tiny studded scratches of the broken glass. On reaching where Karofsky sat he reached back and dragged the pail of water after him. He looked into the thin crimson water in the darkness, seeming to consider a meaning in it, then lifted his head in conclusion. Karofsky was still looking down in pale confusion so Kurt pointed to make his meaning clear: "Your arm."

"Oh." It was all he could manage. But then, a kind of grudging remnant of ingrained character, he muttered, "'s ok."

But Kurt, ignoring him, had already placed himself alongside the lockers and begun to pull back the collar of the ruined jacket. Dave shuddered involuntarily at the proximity of Kurt's damp, cold fingers to his neck.

"You need to sit up." He obeyed silently, wriggling and bending so that Kurt could slip the sleeve off of his uninjured left shoulder. Then Kurt, quickly sending a glance over his shoulder at the silent, almost sleeping, figure of Blaine, gently drew the jacket across the lockers so that all except the tattered right sleeve lay in his lap. Karofsky closed his eyes and leaned back against the metal doors, silently praying for the strength to take the coming pain. But he opened them when he felt nothing happening.

Silently, next to him, Kurt was unbuttoning his shirt, pulling it over his head to reveal a simple white T-shirt. He didn't need to look down to know that the white was now stained by a wide dark oval, slightly tacky on his bare skin underneath. Taking his shirt in his hands, ignoring the identical, if enlarged, mark it too had, Kurt opened out the collar and, using his teeth, for the second time that night, began to tear it into strips. Karofsky could only watch as the only boy he'd ever known carry a compact and two spare outfits in his locker sacrificed the very shirt off his back.

When Kurt had finished, looking at the small pile of cloth with an almost sigh, he reached forward and took hold of the cuff of Dave's sleeve. Glancing up, their two pairs of eyes met in the inky darkness, sharing an understanding. Then, steadily, Kurt began to peel back the fabric, which crackled with dried blood. Bit by bit it came away, with fibres stretching and then breaking from a hundred gashes of a hundred sizes. Drops of freshly freed blood ran down his already stained forearm, showing garishly scarlet against the rusted brown. Slowly Kurt was unable to pull back the sleeve any more, the cut tightening around Karofsky's bicep, and so he began moistening it with the water and slowly plucking the jacket away from the skin. In a few places the glint of glass still showed from inside a wound, but Kurt didn't dare to touch it. "Leave it to the professionals," he muttered to himself, "they'll be here soon." But Kurt didn't fail to notice that as he worked higher and higher, Karofsky had begun to swear continually under his breath.

And then he realized the reason for this. So far he'd been working quickly and methodically, but then the cloth suddenly became harder to move, entirely stiffened and glued. And as Kurt dripped more and more handfuls of the pink water onto the now soaking arm, he saw a pattern: rings of congealed blood, radiating outwards from something that looked nothing like a glass wound. It was deep and dark and round, and sunk into the very ball of his shoulder.

"David?" Kurt whispered weakly and incredulously. Karofsky had followed his eyes and now realised what he had seen. But even so he had no idea what to say. After a pause of a moment or two whilst Kurt gazed transfixed at the wound, overcome by the fact that this boy…of all the people in the world…had sat there, helped him, made no fuss, after being…being…Kurt didn't want to think the word but it came through nonetheless. Shot.

"It was meant for me." Kurt mumbled to himself.

"What?"

"N-nothing." Blinking, he went back to work on freeing the sleeve. Minutes passed like hours, but finally it was free enough to slowly, ever so achingly slowly, slide the leathery shreds over his hand and away. Kurt picked up the jacket and neatly folded it to one side. The sight of the arm, bare and bleeding, drew both their eyes morbidly, with Karofsky's teeth now gritted in fresh pain.

"It needs a tourniquet." David's voice was matter-of-fact and painful. With his good arm he managed to shift his weight awkwardly on the floor, as pins and needles ran excruciatingly through both his legs. Kurt nodded, picking up the longest strip of cloth and passing it under Dave's arm. He looked up but then quickly back at his hands, suspended in mid air.

"Here?"

"No, a bit lower. Just below the joint, and as hard as you can."

"How do you know all this?" Kurt's hands tightened on the knot. There was no answer. The fabric bit deep into the limp muscle of his arm, only half an inch above the horrible wound."Can you feel that?"

He gave a small grunting cough, then, "Yeah…thanks." This time Kurt didn't answer. Instead he began to bind the arm as best he could, careful not to push any glass deeper than it already was. Every second or third knot he glanced back at Blaine, still lying to the side of the door. Kurt wanted to hold his body again, to hold them against each other and whisper that he was always going to be there for him, no matter what. More than anything he wanted Blaine to be out of this nightmare; away, clean, comfortable, safe. Anything he could give him. His fumbling hands worked faster and faster.

"You want to go back to him…" The mumble was faint; Karofsky had shut his eyes again, but some little colour, or what Kurt could see in the darkness, had returned to his cheeks. Was it a question or a statement?

"Yeah," Kurt replied, noncommittally. In both cases it was the truth. Picking up the last strip, he wound it over and around the arm, almost reaching the last of the cuts. "There," he added. Gingerly, Dave raised his arm slightly, wincing, and held it against his chest. "Oh, wait," said Kurt, a second idea forming in his mind. He reached back behind himself and grabbed the folded jacket, turning it out and folding it again in a different manner. Reaching out he placed the padded body under Dave's elbow and forearm, and at as much arms length as he could manage, passed the two sleeves around his back and tied them over his good shoulder; a sling. Karofsky gave a genuine smile and tiny snort of laughter. Then when the moment passed he raised his right hand and gave Kurt a small shooing motion; permission to go back to Blaine. And Kurt didn't need a moment more.

* * *

><p>A few minutes later, with Kurt once again sitting against the wall with Blaine's head on his chest, their hands interlaced, a colossal crash came from overhead, and the heads of the two conscious boys snapped to the ceiling. Then a shot rang out, and another. But Karofsky's head swivelled at the sound of the second one. Catching Kurt's eye he said, "Those weren't from the same places. One was outside."<p>

"You sure?"

"Yeah. From the quad side. And that first," he said, gesturing with his thumb to the ceiling, "was from the cafeteria. They're coming for him. So, then, they'll come for us."

In silence the boys waited for something else to happen; for an end.


	11. Road

Will Schuester sat, numb, on a small wall behind seven, maybe eight, police cars. The hoodie he'd pulled on for decency's sake over his baggy sweatpants and oldest T-Shirt, when his phone had first rung an hour or so ago, now stuck to him in the heat of the evening. In the light of the streetlamps he saw the crowds of police officers milling about; over half of them he counted carrying huge weapons across their chests, walking up and away from the narrow gap which had been left in the cordon at the gates of the school. His mind refused to process the sight; this was a place for children, for young adults. He saw Figgins marching amongst them, waving his arms, demanding something. Answers, probably.

Since Will's banged up car had reached the rear of the queue of flashing lights and police tape they had heard nothing, seen nothing. It was like waiting on the edge of a storm. Moving through the horror scene he'd at first been glad to see the paramedics waiting idly by their vehicles, but then the realisation that all the kids were still inside had hit him. In a blind panic he'd stumbled upon Emma and Figgins, both interrogating any officer who would listen. Emma…Emma, who was now standing slightly away to the side, in light summer pyjamas and a bright yellow cardigan, ruffled gently by the hot breeze, phone to her ear as she tried to reach the parents of those inside. As he looked over from his seat, Will could see the luminous tracks of tears down her cheeks, and he felt them reflected in anger on his own. Why were they not being told anything? Why was nothing happening?

After a few more tense minutes, in which Will began to try and recall the last words he'd said to each member of his club, trying to work out what it had been that had forced them to go back into school on this night of all nights, Figgins wandered over and sank down beside him, head rocking into his hands.

"Nothing. They won't say anything. Only the same old line; that someone made a call from inside the school. I mean, William, what are we supposed to think, eh?" He glanced over his shoulder at Emma, as she raised her hanky to her face and wiped furiously but delicately at her nose, still with her cell balanced against her ear. "What are we supposed to tell them? The police didn't want anyone to know at first, but I said you absolutely had to be here."

"Thanks." It was all that he could master. The back doors of a large van near them were opened and an officer stepped down, handing over a sheet of paper to another uniformed figure. Inside the van was a bank of monitors and screens, burning with green and black lights.

Will looked over to what he could see of the school; a stack of dark rectangles, with no sign of life within. He winced physically; could he have picked a more indelicate expression? But it was true; no light came from any of the windows. He shuffled sideways along the wall to try to see round the trees which marked the gateway to McKinley High, but he knew there was nothing more to learn from this far away. In any case the choir room had no windows on this side of the buildings. His room. He should be in there with them. His heart pounded. If anything had happened to any single one of them, he would never forgive himself. He would resign. He couldn't go on with that guilt on his head.

Will turned, about to express the same feelings to Figgins, when there was a first flurry of activity around the entrance. The two men stood up together, as a snake of heavily armed police ran, crouching, in the direction of the main building, heading for the quad and the back stairs to the cafeteria. In the moment of hushed silence which followed their movement, Will's mind swore it heard the sound of breaking china and splintering wood drift from the windows of the ghost school. "Please don't let them be hostages…" he begged inside his head, to no-one in particular. If praying was going to help, then he would pray all night. "Please let them be ok…" His fears redoubled as one team of paramedics moved forwards through the vehicles, stopping nearest the gate. To their side a female cop detached herself from her superior and came over, gently touching Figgins on the arm. With a quick word in his ear, of which his face betrayed nothing, she took him aside. Will's head ticked backwards and forwards, trying to watch both events at once, squinting to see Figgins' face in the moonlight. But then the conversation was over, with a swift gesturing towards the school, and the principle rejoined Will on the hard stone wall.

"What did she want?"

"Odd…She asked where the locker rooms were…where the boys' one is. Nothing about the cafeteria or choir room, or wherever," he flicked his hand in the direction the men had disappeared in, "they were going. I thought they'd know everything about where to go from whoever'd called them."

"What…" Will couldn't stop himself from speaking his terrifying mind, "what if they think they were forced to call? By whoever…" He too was forced, running out of words, to wave his hand meaninglessly at the dark buildings.

Figgins didn't reply.

* * *

><p>A minute later the sound of gunfire rang across the empty concrete; one shot followed by another. The two men physically flinched at the sounds; Emma giving a whelp of shock and fear and darting up, startled like an animal, from where she'd been searching her bag for tissues. As one the sea of professionals reached to arm themselves and began to move into some kind of prearranged formation, with rows fanning out around the gates, ready for some kind of order. Will remained standing now, stepping forward, ready to run straight in after them. His overcome mind began to simply repeat the names of his kids, over and over again. <em>Rachel, Finn, Mercedes, Kurt, Puck, Quinn, Sam,<em> _Tina, Artie, Mike, Brittany, Santana, Lauren…_Thirteen names; thirteen lives that he felt completely responsible for. What would he give for them to swap positions with him?

Two shouts echoed up from the hidden courtyard; then a breath of silence before a third shot, and a fourth. To his ears they all sounded like they came from inside the building. Against every wish he had, every better thought and judgement, his mind unthinkingly subtracted four from thirteen.


	12. Break

The volley of shots reduced the Glee members to silence once more. By now Finn's back had gone past the stage of aching pain, and was now completely numb. Standing was going to be awkward when the time came. As the explosions echoed down the corridors however, they sounded different in his ears. "Guys…" Finn whispered tentatively, not looking behind himself. In the darkness some soft sort of tension told him they were listening as he was. "Did you hear that?"

"Yeah," came the reply from Sam to his right. "That's a different sound; like a different gun."

"What?" said Mercedes. "So he's got another gun with him as well?"

"No, no," mumbled Finn, trying to work out why the sound was so different, so important. Another crash echoed down the hall from the cafeteria. "It sounded further away." Another crash, another shot, this time close, as the older ones had been. Then an even more chilling sound, a raking, rasping laugh, which cackled and sparked with madness; the noise was faint, but most definitely real. Finn's spine came out of numbness to shiver. Oh God. What had that man done to Kurt? To his brother?

"He sounds close. Really close." Tina trembled and passed her hands into Mike's.

"No," Finn repeated. "He's still in the cafeteria. He hasn't come out or we'd have heard him." Again they relapsed into silence as the noises continued. Then all at once a voice much louder, but also much further away echoed throughout the building. Its sound was muffled and distorted and electronic, but the children, hearing the tone, understood the message. The police were here. The building was surrounded and there was no escape for the gunman. Behind him, Finn heard someone give a long exhale of anxiousness. "It won't be long now, right?" It was Quinn. Nobody answered as the electronic, loud-hailing noise began again, repeating its message. Almost in answer came that cackling laugh again, and another set of shots.

"They'd have come to the front of school right?" whispered Puck. "So they must be down in the quad, trying to go up the back stairs to the cafeteria."

"But," piped Rachel, "Santana told them where we were; why would they be going in through the cafeteria? Why not just come and get us?"

Finn knew the responsibility for all the questions was landing on him. He had no ideas; no idea why the police should be doing what they were doing, no answers for the state of the universe; God, what did they want from him? A very gentle rustling noise drew Finn's eyes upwards in the now familiar darkness; Kurt's bag was open and the papers inside it were rippling in the draught from one of the high windows at the back of the room. But then he became aware of a second noise, of feet and muttered voices deadened by the two storey drop to the grass of the playing fields. There were people outside, on their side of the building. Lifting one hand over his head and signalling, Finn tried to direct the attention of the others to the window, open only a few inches. But turning with his heart pounding in his chest, he saw that most of them didn't understand. Rachel's dark brows were furrowed in confusion, Brittany's head cocked comically. He bent low, feeling suddenly secretive, and whispered, still pointing. "Outside. Can't you hear it? There are people outside."

There was silence for a few seconds, but then Rachel looked him in the eyes. "Finn, I can't hear anything." Finn strained to hear the precious sounds again. But his head fell; he couldn't. "I swear I heard them; swear it." Puck turned away from the far door for a second. "Sorry man; can't hear them either…" Another noise from the direction of the cafeteria. "Maybe, maybe you just wanted to hear it?"

"But…but if they are out there; then…then their waiting for us. We need to go, we need to go to them, get out of here…" Finn was rambling, his voice getting louder in graduations. The possibility of all this coming to an end was almost overwhelming.

Rachel reached forwards and put her hands on his shoulders. "Finn; calm down. We can't go. We can't move and we mustn't talk loudly, ok? We have to wait; they'll come to us in a bit." The boy looked back into her deep brown eyes and blinked. No. Finn couldn't stand it; any of it, any longer. "I'm going to look."

Before any of them could stop him, Finn had shrugged off Rachel's light hands and, staggering slightly to one side as the blood rushed back past his knees, stood up outside of the cocoon of the piano. Sam and Mike lunged for his feet, but only managed to catch the hem of his jeans, which quickly slithered out of their fingers. "No! Finn!" Quinn darted forwards, crawling through the mass of bodies, but Sam grabbed her by the arms and held her back. Rachel sat, eyes wide, hands still half extended, as Finn dove across the room towards the raised seats, in full view of either door. Grabbing a chair and dragging it to the window, he climbed up and looked down into the moonlight.

From his position under the keyboard of the piano, Puck glanced left and right at the horrified faces of his friends, feeling Lauren's soft hand tighten around his. He squeezed it back. Then made up his mind. "Fuck this…" He too dove out from under the cover and ran, still crouching, after his old best friend.

In the midst of all this, no one noticed that the noises from the cafeteria had stopped, or that the doors had swung open with that distinctive swoooosh.

* * *

><p>Downstairs, Kurt and Karofsky had heard every shot along with Mr Schuester and the Glee members, as well as the wail of the loudhailer. "What the hell do you think is happening?" whispered Dave, his eyes the only clearly visible part of him to Kurt's adjusting vision, shining out of the surrounding darkness.<p>

"I don't know. Maybe they've got him trapped somewhere."

"Sounds like the cafeteria. That's what's upstairs on that side."

Kurt let their voices lapse into silence again. He concentrated on continuously feeling the sensation of Blaine's heart beating against his own, and his boyfriend's back and chest rising and falling as he breathed. Keep going, Blaine.

A few more minutes passed, interspersed with random noises. Slowly, Kurt began to convince himself that he could hear other noises, shufflings and low voices, coming from somewhere nearby. "Do you hear that?" he whispered.

"What?"

"Listen. I think it's outside."

Dave's eyes disappeared for a moment; Kurt pictured his huge face screwing into itself with the effort of listening. "Yeah…yeah, I think I do."

Kurt's heart leapt, help was coming. But then a hail of shots sounded overheard again, having changed places, and Kurt heard a stream of different, very different sounds which stopped his heart and flung it into his mouth. From above, five, six, seven shouts and screams; the voices of his friends. And from outside a frantic running and clattering, leading to an iron grating sound, and the slamming of a door, with moving feet now pounding down the distant corridors. Whoever had been outside was now within, running in at a distance fire escape, chasing up the east staircase to the floor above. They had been forgotten.

And then, with a slight breath on his fingers, frozen half woven into Blaine's soft curls, a small, unsteady voice, barely a sigh, cut into the tune: "K-k-kurt?" Eyelashes quavered and rose millimetres. "K…kurt? Wha…whe…are…you ok?"


	13. Struggle

No one had been watching the doors; not since Finn had blundered out from under the piano and climbed up to the window. And so Finn was the first to realise two things; that there were people outside, just as he'd thought, and that there was another person in the room with them.

Reaching over the window ledge he could just lean himself out far enough to see down to the ground below. Shadowy figures were crouched down there, tensed, armed; to Finn's confused mind they looked more like an army than a rescue force. But they must be here to save them; must be. He watched nervously, not knowing what to do now his initial burst of action had escaped him, as one figure beckoned to the others, leading them slowly away around the corner of the building, towards the football field. There was a noise, someone swearing, behind him to his right, but Finn didn't care, he'd been right and they were going to be ok. He smiled slightly to himself.

But then there was another noise; a click and a sliding sound. And the window ledge under Finn's arms exploded in a storm of splinters.

He slipped on the plastic chair, veering to one side as he overbalanced, feeling the weight of his whole body tense beneath him, as terrified screams erupted from behind him. But suddenly Finn felt his course to the floor change; he felt himself tackled by some huge force in midair, and flung in the opposite direction, crashing to the ground and rolling, being pushed, being dragged, rolling again...more sounds, more vibrations, like fireworks, seemed to come from above him at all times, sparking and raining down a shower of bright powder.

Finn was aware of coming to a halt. He opened his eyes, wondering when he had closed them, and found Puck's face, panicked, tense, eyes wide and wild, just inches from his own. They were lying just behind the drum kit, to the left of the platform, out of view of the others. Suddenly Finn's mind cleared and he rolled desperately over, trying to stand up and reach the others, but Puck forced his head down. Finn's head jarred against the floor, and he could no longer tell if the girls were still screaming, or whether the noises were only echoes inside his mind.

But then there was another bang, and another crackle of splintering wood, accompanied by a jarring chord from what Finn guessed was the piano. He tried to get up again, but once more Puck held him down, ducking his head and crawling against him; forcing the two of them together into a bundle behind the instruments. Finn no longer struggled when he saw the look of fear and horror in Puck's eyes. He held his breath, craning is face up to the ceiling and tried not to think as a second of silence stretched out into the room. Then, ghostly and sickeningly slowly, Finn saw the long protruding barrel of a gun emerge onto the white titles of the ceiling, inches above his own face. Puck, kicking backwards with his feet, tried to move away into space that wasn't there as the gun came to rest precisely between his eyes. "Found ya..." hissed a sickening voice, "found you all..." Puck's eyes crossed on the tip of the barrel. Above himself, Finn saw a single, disembodied hand close on the rigid trigger of the weapon.

Just then another bang sounded behind the group of them, along with a shout, two shouts, and two sets of running feet. And Finn saw the hand twist slightly in its movements and pause. Then, slaammm, the drums were shoved backwards with the force of an impact, and the gun above Finn rocketed forwards, colliding into Puck's head. Finn watched in slow motion as Puck raised his hand automatically, never uncrossing his eyes from the gun, a puckered ring of pink emerging on his forehead then, as the gun shook violently, staring in panic at something Finn could not see, behind his own head. The kit trembled again and there was another scream. Puck, his eyes shifting over Finn's shoulders, suddenly ducked to the ground as the gun swung in a wide circle, slamming against something to Finn's right and releasing another shot which exploded into the wall at the far end of the room. Whatever the weapon had hit, it now rebounded, drifting again across Finn's head and Puck's prone figure.

And suddenly Finn was moving again. The actions cleared in front of him as simple as daylight, and with both hands he seized the gun from underneath, shoving it upwards into the ceiling with all his might. He felt the pull of the gunman force against his wrists but he held on, pushing higher, rising unsteadily, still facing away from whatever had happened. Suddenly, pain erupted through his clenched and clawing hands as his fingers were torn by the heat and vibration of a shot which disappeared into the ceiling. Finn cried out in pain, twisting instinctively into himself; the gun hinged down onto his shoulder. And with a wrench it abruptly came free. Free. Dead and limp and heavy in Finn's shaking hands. It slithered and fell through his fingers, greasy with sweat, until he managed to find a grip. And it stopped, and the weight sank in his arms. Finn stared, blinking, at the deadliness in his hands. He felt sick.

Suddenly Puck was up, up and in front of him, then past him and clambering around the drum kit, and Finn turned. At eye level the room looked empty, no one except himself was standing, but on the floor, what had been a metre away behind him only seconds earlier, writhed three people, Sam, Mike and...and him. Their arms and legs beat against each other, Sam holding one arm awkwardly, Mike's lip dribbling blood onto his chin, all three trying to rise to their feet, all trying to gain the upper hand. And then Puck passed into Finn's vision, and bent, throwing an arm into the man's lithe, large body, driving his fist into a snarled angry face. "You bastard!" Puck's cry rose above the shouts of the other boy's, ringing around the room, breathless and disgusted. "You fu...mother...son of..." Blow after blow landed, until the man's struggles almost stopped. Puck reached down to the man's shirt collar, seized it, lifted him, then twisted and threw him back to the floor, crouching to dig his knee into the man's back, grabbing each arm and wrenching the hands into his own. Painfully and awkwardly Sam and Mike rose. In the distance they heard more shouts, more running feet. One by one the girls, Lauren and Brittany holding Artie between them, staggered up from behind the piano, tears streaming down all their faces. Still blinking, Finn saw through the half light the wires and hammers glinting and tangled in the exposed insides of the grand; saw Tina running forward to embrace Mike, saw Sam turn and collapse to sitting on the floor, his forearm held gingerly against himself, his hair tangled and strewn, his eyes closed, saw himself turn and awkwardly place the gun in the very corner of the room, facing away from everyone. His hands suddenly felt too light.

And then, for the second time, he felt himself struck from the side, and felt arms slide around his waist, a face pressed into his chest. He looked down, expecting the blonde hair of Quinn, but it was dark, a dark brown. Rachel held him in all the naturalness of fear and relief, her tears soaking into his shirt. Behind them, tearfully and resolved, Quinn sat and clasped Sam to her, rocking the two of them together on the steps, her eyes stuck to the back of Finn's body and Rachel's intertwined hands.

Onto this scene, with Puck still pinning the creature to the floor, tears rolling down even his stubbled cheeks, Lauren's hands on his back, the door opened once more and a stream of police flooded the room. Sam choked back tears of pain, and Mike wiped the blood forcefully from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, Brittany placed Artie back in his chair and curled into his lap. Santana stood still behind the piano, unmoving until a uniformed hand was placed on her arm and she was gently steered away. In the corner Finn slowly stroked he back of Rachel's hair, feeling it cool and soft under his aching, bruising fingers. They were safe.

He drew Rachel's hands from behind his back and kissed her, quickly, impulsively. Then turned and ran to the door in six paces, driving his way through the police, seizing one or two by the sleeves, pulling them after him. They cannoned into the corridor and towards the staircase. Kurt.


	14. Soul

Kurt's heart was pounding so loudly that he didn't hear his own reply. "Blaine…"

Blaine's beautiful eyes were gazing up into his; barely open, eyelashes quivering and flickering, but open. "I…" his mouth parted again, tongue dry and thick, "I heard you…"

Kurt's mouth creased as he held back tears and shone a watery smile. He tightened his grip on Blaine's hand.

"And I could…could feel you…" Blaine's free arm quivered and rose a few inches, his hand turning slowly towards his own head, gesturing. "Kurt…" His voice broke painfully.

"Sshhhh," soothed Kurt, running his thumb over Blaine's cheek. Karofsky turned away in embarrassment, felling like the intruder.

Blaine seemed to notice the movement in the darkness, although he didn't look up. "Kurt…are…you're ok, aren't you?"

Kurt gave a breathy laugh, smiling again, "Yeah, I'm ok, silly. You're the one who ran out looking for trouble…" This time it was Kurt's turn for his emotions to get the better of him. He choked, eyes streaming once more, holding for all his worth to Blaine's warm hand. "Why did you do it? Why?"

Blaine considered the question, eyes half closed, for a second. "Does…does it make any s…sense if I just…just say…I love you?"

To Kurt it made all the sense in the world.

One more shot rang out above them and all three boys flinched. Kurt's stomach clenched in second fear; how the hell had he let himself forget his friends? He listened. This time it sounded like there were no screams, but he could no longer hear the running feet of the police officers. Kurt shuddered. Karofsky edged slightly back towards the pair, grouping back together. "Listen," he said in a low voice, eyes fixed in all seriousness on Kurt, "We have no idea what is going on up there. For all we know Finn, Sam, Rachel and the others, they all left the building an hour ago and are all waiting for us outside, yeah?" Each name was like an icicle sliding down into Kurt's chest. Karofsky reached out his good hand and lightly touched Kurt's shoulder. "Don't jump to conclusions."

"Kurt?" muttered Blaine. "Yes?" Kurt replied, turning his gleaming eyes back down on that vision of a face. Blaine's eyes were fully closed now and he scrunched them in pain as he tried to lift his arm again. Once more the fingers flicked towards his head, and this time Kurt saw they were coated in dry blood. "It…it hurts…"

"I…I know," Kurt's insides felt like they'd be ripped in two, as panic twisted around fear. "The…the…the people, the people that help, they're on their way Blaine, ok?" His words scrambled on his tongue and lost all sense.

"Ok…" was the sincere, innocent reply, like a child's trusting belief in a fairytale. Kurt's mind raced as to what he could do. An echo of more running came from overhead, then began to move away, towards the stairs, growing in volume.

"Kurt? Did I…did I say that I love you…?"

* * *

><p>"Kurt? Kurt! Kurt?" Finn's voice echoed along the empty hallways, as he sprinted, leaving the police he didn't have hold of behind him. Those two whose hands he had seized ran beside him, clawing at his arms and trying to slow him down, shouting, but he would not stop.<p>

But then they tore to the top of the stairs and Finn looked to his right. The cafeteria was a ruin, tables overturned, broken glass littering the floor. Through the open doors he could see clear through to the windows on the far side, overlooking the quad. All but one were smashed, ribbed with fissures and cracks radiating from pinprick holes. Water was dripping onto the floor from overhead somehow, the sound magnified in the quiet. Finn had stopped, staring at the sight. Was Kurt somewhere in among that mess?

"Son!" One of the two officers spoke up, a man, middle-aged, still trying to free his hand from Finn's vice grip, his other hand coming to rest on Finn's shoulder to try and hold him back should he decide to run again. "What do you think you're doing?" A voice on his other side spoke up, a woman this time. "Love, come on. You've obviously had a huge shock. Let us take you outside, ok? Your parents are probably sick with worry." She too placed her free hand on his arm, but stroked it sympathetically. "Come on, come back with us." Ordered, pacing footsteps came towards them from behind. Finn glanced round. More officers were following them down the hall. "No." He almost shouted it, staring at the floor now. "No; I need to find my brother."

The woman's eyes creased in concern; she looked at lot like his mum when she did that. "Your brother?" Finn felt the man's grip tighten on his shoulder and saw him mouth something secretly to the woman over his head. "You know something?" This time he did shout, accusingly, spinning around, wheeling the woman after him as he turned to face the man. The second group of police had reached them in the corridor now, and stood watching slowly. The older man looked Finn in the eyes for a moment, and for the first time Finn realised he had a gun holstered at his waist, poking out from beneath his vest. He didn't reply, but turned slowly to the leader of the second group. "Where was the call from?"

The helmeted man spoke with respect, he was obviously this man's junior, "Downstairs sir. We were almost there when the orders changed."

"And is this building secure now?"

"Yes sir, as far as we can tell."

"Ok." He turned back to Finn, wrenching his hand from his grasp. "You can come." He lifted his own vest over his head and passed it around Finn's shoulders, forcing him to let go of the woman's hand as well. "But go slow. No more running off." He turned back to the small group. "Where did the call come from, again?"

"The boy's locker room, sir. They need the area secured for the medical team." Finn's mind began to rock at the words. The senior officer's eyes flashed towards him. "Alright, let's go. Form out across the corridor." He turned to Finn again. "Do you know the fastest way there?"

And Finn turned on his heel and cannoned through the open door to the stairwell.

* * *

><p>Blaine's eyes were still closed, though he and Kurt continued their whispered conversation in the quietest tones. Kurt was desperately trying to distract him from any pain, any fear. "So..." he mumbled, still tearful, "I guess this is a dinner you owe me?" The corner's of Blaine's mouth rose. "Nice try. Ev...everyone knows on the third date you split the bill...or the boy pays...which is just too confusing..."<p>

Karofsky was watching them now, no longer feeling such awkwardness. In fact he had to admit that the strongest emotion within himself was jealousy; how had Kurt managed to find such happiness, after all the pain Dave had put him through? They were so close, not in the way any of the football jocks were with their girls, mindless and uncaring about anything other than sex and trophies. No, they were properly in love, it was all over them. His arm twinged. Leaning back he saw the spear of light from the door suddenly shadowed, and in two more seconds heard the sound of running feat, pounding down the corridor, and a breathless voice. "Kurt?"

Once again the broken shards of glass squealed as they were drawn over the floor, and then, for the fourth time, the door was thrown open.


	15. Memory

Puck's hands had been pulled from the man's arms, his knuckles bruised and cut. He'd been hauled off his back, sat down in a seat, as ten armed guards led the gunman away. He'd watched some expert technician disarm and examine the gun in the corner of the room before that too was taken away. Then other officers had started marking spots on the floor and stretching tape measures between the blasted holes in the walls. His head was bleeding, from a circular pain, right between his eyes. He thought maybe someone was talking to him; but it wasn't Lauren. She'd been taken outside with the first wave of police. He guessed her parents were probably out there. The thought cut deep into his heart.

There was someone talking to him. It was a police woman, but she was different to all the others, not dressed the same, more casual and approachable. She had her hand on his arm and was saying something about shock. Oh right. Puck thought about it for a second and realised that would be the obvious conclusion. He hadn't spoken, probably except for cursing, since the cops had arrived. Yeah; that's what they must think. But it was wrong. Puck turned so that his shoulders faced the lady, and with a quick glance at her face; not quite believing what he was about to say, looked at his hands and began to talk, cutting across her mid sentence. "I need to confess something." It was all his fault. All his own goddamn fault.

* * *

><p>"<em>Just fuck off, alright?" Puck wishes there was a door he could slam, but instead settles for stalking back down the central tiny hall of his dad's ground floor flat, to the room he's forced into for one long weekend of every month. <em>

"_Don't use that kinda language at me, boy." The voice is low and quiet, trying to appear even more threatening, but Puck can see through it. He's been playing this game for the last thirteen years._

"_Or what?" There's a thump of something being thrown behind him in the tiny half lounge, half kitchenette. Puck reaches his door and throws it open, letting it crash against the wafer thin wall in reply. The paper behind the door handle, covered in disgusting miniature pink bouquets, is already stained, rusted and scored through from this routine._

"_I'll show you what." Another scraping sound, followed by a tinkling of empty bottles being shuffled over. Puck rolls his eyes and goes into his room, closing the door behind himself and throwing the small bolt across. He'd put that lock on himself, four years ago. It had been a long time since he'd allowed himself to be stupid enough to get caught by his father when he was in one of these moods. In any rate, he was usually too drunk to make it from the sofa to the bedroom._

_The room is dark, with the blinds closed to the rusting fence and neighbouring squatters, and Puck walks, slowly and carefully, picking his way around unseen obstacles to the bedside table, flicking on the lamp. The light throws out onto a tiny bed, still the same one he slept in from when he was five or six, a tiny table with no chair, a cluster of old curtain rails balanced in a corner, and his suitcase, opened and partially repacked, lying on the bed with the rest of his clothes strewn around it. There were clothes there he hadn't worn since puberty; childish T-shirts and shorts, small grubby trainers. But this time they weren't being left behind in the cupboard in the corner, which backed onto the boiler and was slowly filling with mould. No. This time everything was leaving with him. Tomorrow, when he could finally walk out of this house and never have to come back. Breathing slowly he reminds himself how good it feels to finally be legally free._

_There's another sound out in the hallway, but he ignores it, throwing some more posters and pictures from the peeling walls into a rucksack._

"_Noah?" This time the voice is high and pleading, propped just outside the door. "Noah, come on. I promise I'll not say anything you don't want me to. I just wanna see you."_

_Puck says nothing, just keeps packing. "Noah. Noah? Are you even listening?" The voice is edging towards harshness again, never able to keep it at bay for more than a few minutes._

"_Come on; come out now. We'll have a few beers, watch the football. Like proper men, together." It almost makes Puck laugh, the irony and insanity of it._

"_Noah Puckerman!" This time his name is accompanied by a heavy thump at the door. The bolt rattles. "Now! Or I'm gonna fuckin' break this door down and drag you out here myself and put some manners in you. And don't think I won't do it, cause God knows you've seen me do it before…I bet you did, didn't you? Has your mother told you all about it? I bet she has, the little bitch. Her and that man of hers. But you're still mine…cause you're never gonna get away from me, you hear? Always; I'm always gonna be in your head. Cause you're just like me, my boy. Just the bloody same." _

_Puck bunches his fists in front of himself. How does he always manage to say just the right thing to get right under his skin? Why can't he just slide it off his back? _

'_Cause you're just like me…' echoes a voice. No, chants Puck; no, I'm not. I'm like me, like myself, I'm like mum, and sometimes I'm someone even I don't know, but never, never ever ever am I gonna let myself be like you._

_There's silence at the door, then a small click. Puck throws another sweater into the suitcase, but then stops. The bottom of the door is edging forwards. Then there's a clatter and he looks down, seeing the shining bronze of the door bolt resting just by his feet._

_And there's his father, framed in the doorway, picture of a stereotype in his greasy vest and cap. "Don't think I'm stupid, son." And this time, at last, Puck is frightened. He's cornered, with a different form of his father; not blind drunk, almost sober, but still as enraged. He's holding something in his hand; a screwdriver. "I took the liberty of making sure I could get in to every room in my own home. I hope you don't mind." Neither of them moves. After all these years they understand each other; the conflict can't start from nothing. However small it may be, there has to be a spark. And then his dad glances down, and sees the suitcase, and the childish clothes and the photos._

"_Going somewhere?" Puck glances left and right worriedly. He wonders, if he could get round his father, whether he could just leave everything in this room behind and make a run for it now. His phone lies on the table. Slowly, he reaches for it and puts it in his pocket. _

"_I asked you a question." His father takes a slightly unsteady step into the room, letting some of the clothes lying near the door pile up against his shuffling feet. He bends and picks a photo of the football team from the bed. His father's slightly shorter than Puck is, but they share the same hair colour, and the same build. Puck's mind sees the same picture his father is holding reproduced on the wall of the sitting room, even in the same McKinley uniform, with a date of eighteen years earlier._

_For once Puck can't tell if the tension needs him to speak or not. His father is still studying the football picture, his squinting eyes watering as he strains to see the faces. Then he pulls back and waves the photo at his son. "Why didn't you show me this?"_

"_It's mine. I didn't think you'd care that much."_

"_I didn't know you'd made the team. When did that happen? How many games have you gotten?" Question after meaningless question about the life he tries to keep separate from this existence. But Puck answers them all, aware of the fact that his father seems to have calmed down a bit over the subject, seems to have forgotten the suitcase._

_But then his father waves the photo once more to emphasise a point, and another picture, stuck tackily to the back of it, suddenly comes away and drifts slowly to the floor. Puck watches as his father bends awkwardly to retrieve it. And then he realises what it is._

"_What the hell is this?" The light goes once again from his father's voice. The picture is them; all of them, all the glee club together, right after winning Regionals. Puck had only brought it with himself that weekend, to remind himself of the good times, of the Nationals which were coming up. In it his arms were round Lauren and Rachel, and he looked properly happy. Finn was in front of him, with Quinn, lifting the trophy above Artie's head. Confetti was drifting down on them._

"_It's…it's Glee Club, dad."_

"_Glee Club?" The anger returns to replace the lightness._

"_Yeah, we won Regionals. We've got Nationals in New York at the end of the month." Puck's voice treads carefully._

_His father squints again at the photo. Puck can feel the man's anger building, but knows he hasn't yet got a motive for it, a target. But then a cracked and calloused finger comes up to the shining faces on the paper. It points at Rachel._

"_Who's this? Some nice Jewish girl?" _

"_That's Rachel." _

"_Uh huh. And this?" His finger moves over Puck's head to Lauren. "What about this one?"_

"_Lauren." Puck's teeth have clenched._

"_I see." His voice is overrun with coarse sarcasm. The finger moves down the photo, to Quinn's smiling face. "And I think I know this one, don't I?"_

_Puck breathes through his nose._

"_Yeah; yeah, I do. Because she's the girl you knocked up, you stupid bastard, isn't she?" His face turns to the photo again, finger moving to Finn's face. "Looks like you couldn't even keep her though, could you? Woman has your baby and then rejects you. That's gotta hurt. You must really be the loser I always knew you'd turn out to be. I mean, the effin' Glee Club? And you manage to lose a girl like that for such a pair of lookers." His fingers split from Quinn's shining hair and drift back to either side of Puck's head. "At least your mother knew that when she tied me down it was the best she was ever gonna manage. Christ knows, if your mother had looked a bit more like that we might have lasted. But this girl…" He taps the photo on the suitcase. "She saw right through you; saw all the things I missed, and got out before it was too late, huh?" His father was looking him dead level in the eyes now. "No Lima Loser for her, eh?"_

_White hot rage floods to the entirety of Puck's being. He takes a step forward, ready to tear the photo out of his father's hands. But his father is quicker this time, and takes a step back, back into the silhouette of the door, still holding both photographs and the screwdriver. A small smile reaches the corners of his mouth._

"_I heard she gave it up. Heard she couldn't even bear to keep it knowing that it was yours. My bastard son's bastard child." Puck launches himself at his father, grabbing him by the shoulders, but yet again the man is too fast, and he strikes out a fist, catching Puck in the stomach and forcing him back against the bed. The suitcase overturns, overbalances and falls, emptying itself onto the floor. He curls instinctively, but not before his father's foot can break against his arms and cannon into his chest, driving out all the air, leaving Puck sucking for breath on the floor. Eyes shut in the darkness; he hears the door swing to, and a new click. "Oh," comes a horribly victorious voice from the other side, "just so you know, I also thought it might be a good idea to put a proper lock on the door. One that works from the outside."_


	16. Trigger

_Nothing about the room has changed when Puck wakes up hours later. The bedside lamp still throws a dim light into the tiny room, his clothes are still strewn across the floor with his upturned suitcase on top of them, the door is still closed. Without moving from where he is, propped against the side of the bed, stomach smarting with this new bruise, Puck forces himself to think. He has to leave, now. His phone rubs against his leg from inside his pocket. But he doesn't want to call anyone. He wants to do this on his own, to make it final. His final escape. Picking himself up he goes first to the door, gently trying the handle. It is still locked. He turns and crosses to the window, drawing up the blind. Outside the night is dark, permeated by the unhealthy glow of light pollution. No lights are on in the house next door. Puck tests the window. It sticks fast for a moment, but then, with a burst of grime and filth which sends a plume of dust up into the air, it swings open. Puck coughs, choking on the smell and the dirt. Backing away from the now open window he turns and grabs his rucksack from the bed, stuffing a few more mementos and clothes down into it, as well as the handful of cash and coupons his mom had sent with him. Dropping it out of the window onto the paving slabs with a quiet thud, he goes to switch off the lamp. _

_Something stops his hand just short of the switch. He goes back over to the door. A small rectangle of paper has been pushed under it, blank and white. He bends and picks it up. It's folded, and as Puck goes to open it a shower of smaller white and coloured squares tumble out of the bottom, drifting to the floor. He opens the paper fully. A few of the smaller pieces have stuck inside it, creating a collage of colours. He shakes it and they come loose, following the rest down to the floor. Puck looks at what he is left holding. It's his football photo. Except now there are dirty fingerprints all over its surface and biro scribbling around its edges. One line forms an arrow which points to his own half smiling face. "This is the son I wanted" reads the scrawl along the top boarder. Puck feels sick. Without looking he knows what the ripped pieces on the floor are._

_He feels that switch flipped inside himself; his hands and face start to grow hot. He wonders how much it would hurt to break down the door. To throw himself down that hallway and charge into that bedroom. But then Puck looks around and sees the clothes and the posters, and lastly the pieces of the Glee picture lying like snow near the door. And they remind him that he's changed from the angry man he used to be, back to someone who he in his childish days would have looked up to. And he can't ruin that for the sake of such a man._

_Breathing deeply he bends to sweep up the fragments of the photograph, placing the creased football picture on the small table, and catches pieces of arms and faces and background. Gathering them in one hand he pushes them deep into his pocket. He's about to turn and leave, to climb out that window for good. A slight breeze comes in through the window pane and lifts the photo on the desk, drifting it backwards until it hits the small pile of coloured paper and blunt pencils which lie there, forgotten from Puck's earliest memories of this house. In a sudden flash he sees his mom picking up one of his drawings from that very table and smiling at it. He sees the man who used to be his father, a distant relation to that he could hear now snoring in the neighbouring room, pining drawing after drawing up on the refrigerator, then along the walls. _

_And this time Puck can't resist. He walks forwards, knees to the floor, pulls a sheet from the pile, and begins to write._

"_Goodb..__. _

_If you're wondering where I've…_

_Don't bother trying to look… _

_Courage._

_It's what makes me different from you. Because every day I cope with whatever life throws at me, instead of hiding from it __like some stupid…__And I know where I get it from. Because I saw mom have the courage to leave you, and the courage to raise me on her own. And I saw twice the courage in any of my friends in Glee Club that I saw in any of the football idiots. I saw it in Quinn when she decided to give Beth up and move on from me. I see it in Lauren every day and I love it in her. I see it in Kurt, and Finn, and Santana, and Artie, but you don't know any of them. And you never will. Because you are never ever going to be part of my life again. __You can beg, you can fight me, you can…_

_I see it in EVERYONE. EVERYONE. Even myself. And that's what proves to me that I was never really your son. Never such a coward._

_So you know what, __dad__? It's like I said earlier. Just fuck off. Leave me alone. Forever. Because EVERYONE in this world means more to me than you could ever do. Rot in hell, do what you like. I don't care. Because I have new families now. And you can't guilt me, or trick me, or hurt me, or them, anymore._

_So goodbye. When you read this I hope you put your fist through something, like the angry idiot you are. I hope it hurts. I hope it goes on hurting forever, until the last of your Lima trapped days. But whatever happens you are never going to see me again. You'd have to kill me before I'd come back here. _

_Like mom, I'm taking my courage. And I leave all the crap of my life here for you. Because you deserve it._

_Noah." _

_Puck breathes, unclenching his hand from the pencil, looking at the dark marks on the paper, the deep scrubbing outs and smudges. It half expresses everything inside of him. But it'll have to do. He stands, twisting a drawing pin from the wall above him, and seizes the picture of the football team from the desk. Quickly but carefully he tears his own image from it, leaving that arrow pointing to blankness. Then stabbing deep and quick he tacks both the remaining photo and the letter to the back of the door. He tears the clothes from the bed with his newly free hands and throws them to the floor, shoving the mattress after them, kicking over the table and ripping the remaining pictures from the walls. Turning off the light and leaving himself in the darkness, Puck pulls the plug from the wall and adds it to the pile. Then throws the remaining torn picture of that horrible likeness, that same kit, that same hair and build, on top of the heap._

_Climbing over the bones of the bed he reaches the window again, and climbs up to pass his legs over the ledge. They hang down in the cool darkness outside. A dog barks a few blocks away. Looking back over his shoulder, Puck can see the whiteness of the letter against the peeling wood of the door. And then his slips down the few feet to the ground, picks up his rucksack, crouches and runs past that next window. Then he's on the sparse front lawn, going past that beat up saloon car, out onto the pavement. And now he can properly run, and never have to look back._

* * *

><p>Back in the choir room, Puck sees everything before himself, as clear as daylight. "It's all my fault. It's him."<p> 


	17. Exit

Finn looked around himself in panic. He could see nothing except yards and yards of broken glass. His path to the door had been marked only by a thin line of painfully dark red. Prayer after prayer catapulted around his mind for it not to be what he thought it was.

Inside the locker room was pure darkness. Finn stumbled, struggling to slow himself down on the shards of the floor, and fumbled around the door for a light switch. He found it and forced his trembling fingers onto it.

The light was blinding. Kurt shut his eyes and held Blaine to him, feeling his injured boyfriend shudder and flinch at the sudden brightness. Karofsky shut his eyes and threw his good arm across them, letting out a yelp of pain.

Suddenly Kurt felt hands on his face, pulling at him, grabbing his arms. He held on tighter to Blaine, having no idea what was going on, keeping his eyes shut. Someone was calling his name, but it sounded odd, distant and forgotten.

And then there were more voices, more shouting. Kurt opened his eyes to slits, but all that came in is blinding whiteness. Until something cut across the light, and his eye could focus. His ears snapped, and the sounds made sense.

"Kurt? Kurt, wake up…Please, Kurt, open your eyes." Finn. It's Finn. Kurt opened his eyes fully, forcing them to deal with the new brightness even though it sent spears of pain into his mind.

"Finn?" He was confused on so many levels. But then the face in front of him split into the biggest grin. Kurt glanced over at Karofsky and down at Blaine. Both of them had their eyes slightly open. They're all watching in wonder. Kurt saw new dark shapes appear in the room. Some gathered round Dave, others clustered around him, Blaine and Finn, some moved straight past all of them, to the back of the room.

"Finn, what's happening?" Other hands were on him now, and Finn was being pulled backwards by strangers he doesn't recognise. He saw tears in his brother's eyes.

"They're getting help, Kurt, ok? They're gonna help. Everything's gonna be fine now." Finn's voice shuddered in his throat; he couldn't take in what he was seeing. There was a bucket, just over to one side of Kurt, filled with disgusting red water. He felt bile rise in his throat. Other patches of blood spattered the floor. Blaine was so, so pale and quiet in Kurt's clinging arms. There were rags and torn clothes everywhere. And Karofsky. What the hell was Karofsky doing there; white as a ghost, his arm wrapped in what looked like the shirt Kurt had been wearing only hours before?

Kurt looked up at his big brother. He wanted to hug him, really badly, but he could never let go of Blaine. As if sensing his thoughts the hands began to pull at his arms, whispering words: "Come on now…just…we'll take care…"

"No," Kurt spoke up, to no one in particular. "I'm not leaving him." He tightened his hand around Blaine's and felt it weakly squeezed. Blaine's chest rose, and Kurt felt him whisper something, but he couldn't hear it. He saw Dave being helped to his feet; saw his uninjured arm being draped over someone's shoulders. Kurt kept struggling against the prying fingers. He saw Finn look at him in nervous concern, he heard his voice again: "Kurt, you have to let them help. You have to let go." Pushed forward by one of the surrounding policemen, Finn was suddenly by his side again, and his hands joined in trying to free Kurt from Blaine, moving gently like the others, not wanting to hurt either of them further. "No…" Kurt whispered weakly. "Finn, no, I can't."

And suddenly another voice cut across them all. "Leave them alone, goddamn it!" Karofsky, held upright by the lockers and leaving heavily on another cop, had turned round at the end of the aisle to shout faintly back across the room. His face was gritted with effort and pain. "Can't you see he shouldn't be moved? Go get the paramedics, do something useful."

"Son, calm down, alright? We're just doing our job." One of the men kneeling by Kurt and Blaine spoke up. Finn recognised him. He wasn't wearing a vest. He was the leader, the man he'd pulled along upstairs and then run from.

"No," Karofsky wouldn't back down. Finn watched him in wonder; what the hell had come over him? "No..." His voice trailed away, his mind had run out of things to say. But underneath he was so angry; he wanted to fight for Kurt to stay with Blaine. The police officer supporting him began to walk again, pulling Dave away from the lockers, and he had to walk with him to stop himself from collapsing to the floor. They reached the back door; the old obstructing washing trolley had been pulled away into the showers, and Karofsky saw another line of police, and he felt himself move from one pair of hands to another, passed along until finally someone helped him to the ground and he was allowed to lie down. Calm voices moved around him, but there were also flashing, angry lights and whispered, hurried shouts. It was dark again, and colder, much colder. He shivered. He felt so tired.

Then he felt himself lifted, and invisible hands began to pull him away from the huge, looming, dark grey buildings.

* * *

><p>The policeman didn't wait for Karofsky to leave the room before he turned back to Kurt. "Come on, son, give this up now." Kurt shook his head, and his whole body seemed to vibrate with it. He leant his head on Finn's shoulder and let the tears run from his eyes. The officer sighed. "Ok. Ok." Kurt's heart relaxed momentarily; he thought they'd won.<p>

"What's your name, honey?" This time it was a different person, a lady, but a different one from the one upstairs, who spoke out to Kurt. She was kneeling like the others at his side, but hadn't been pulling at his arms. Kurt noticed with a tremor that she was holding Blaine's head arms, her hands supporting the back of his neck.

"K-kurt…"

"Ok, Kurt. I'm Laura. And what's his name?" She nodded down at her own hands.

"Blaine." The eyelids between her arms gave a faint flicker at the word.

"Blaine? Alright. Kurt, I want you to listen to me, okay? We're not trying to move Blaine; we're just trying to do some first aid, okay? I know your friend…" Finn swallowed a snort at the word being applied to Karofsky, but Kurt automatically filled in: "David."

"I know David was only trying to help, and he is right, but we need you to let go, ok?" Kurt slowly digested the words. The man leaned forwards again.

"Come on, Kurt; let go of your friend." Kurt shook his head again, but felt his hands begin to loosen.

"He's not my friend…I…I love him…" Finn stared down on the boy he'd come to think of as his little brother, seeing all the anguish in his face and feeling unquenchable pride blossom within himself. Slowly, ever so slowly, Kurt allowed other hands to replace his own in Blaine's. And then, slower still, he let Finn pull his shoulders backwards and slid his legs from under the body of his boyfriend. Kurt felt the blood rush back to his legs, feeling the weight fall off them until he felt as light as air. Finn gathered his brother into himself and embraced him, the relief finally washing over himself. But Kurt felt nothing of the same. He watched Laura carefully lower Blaine's head onto the same jumper he had used all that time ago. Holding onto Finn he watched them scour Blaine's poor figure, touching him, testing him, talking at him but not properly to him.

The door at the back of the room clattered open once more, and four figures in dark green came hurrying towards them. The police officers parted, all except for Laura, as the green paramedics took over. Now Kurt could only watch.


	18. Emerge

Will Schuester stood up and watched from behind the police tape cordon as shadowy figures began to emerge from the buildings. There had been silence for a long time now; ever since the last shot had rocked the air. Police had come backwards and forwards through the entrance ever since that first group had run in almost half an hour ago. And then, about five minutes ago, then paramedic team had set off down into the courtyard without warning. When they had moved Will had jumped up and tried to follow, hurdling the tape, but a policeman had grabbed him and forced him back. Emma had come and taken hold of his shoulders, sitting him down again and letting him hang his head in his hands. But then she'd had to leave; parents were beginning to arrive at the back of the crush of vehicles. Even now Will could see and hear them, shouting, demanding answers. Over to his right, round on the opposite side of the gate, he could see Finn's mom and Kurt's dad, silently holding hands and staring at the desolate school.

But now there was a stirring near the steps down to the courtyard, and Will could see small groups of people walking slowly up. He strained his eyes against the darkness, trying to make out any of his kids amongst the dark, armed figures. And then he saw them, huddled, led, frightened. First up the steps was Rachel, followed by Quinn, then Brittany and Santana. Emerging from the darkness they looked up and blinked in the light of the police vans. And then in turn their eyes locked on figures in the crowd. Will felt himself pressed forward as weeping mothers and stunned fathers surged through the guards, running to embrace their daughters. He saw Rachel's dads envelope her, Brittany's dad scooping her into his arms, tears running down everyone's cheeks. And suddenly he felt lost. No one needed him here. No one was waiting for him.

A second cluster of shapes moved silently into view, and he made out Tina and Mike, arms around each other, Lauren and Mercedes, and Artie, carried gently alongside his chair by two officers to the top of the stairs. And a little way behind them came Sam, carefully cradling his arm to his chest, ushered along by a differently uniformed man who drew him to one side and to the back of a waiting ambulance.

The crowd of parents and family swelled. Everyone was crying and smiling and hugging, and Will stood on the edge of it, just watching. Once more he counted down mentally. Ten. Ten out and fine. Three to go. Puck, Finn and Kurt. Two of the toughest boys and one of the cleverest. They had to be fine too, surely. Craning his neck, Will raised himself onto his toes, holding onto the police tape for balance, expecting to see the fuzz of Puck's Mohawk emerging over the heads of those in front of him. But he saw nothing. Again he felt helpless. Then, glancing around, his heart fell further. Burt and Carol were still standing apart from the rest, looking, as he had done, over heads and into the crush of bodies, trying to find their children. William took an unconscious step forward, but then stopped himself. No; he didn't belong in this, this was about family. He tightened his hands on the plastic tape, winding it loosely over his fingers to distract himself. But then he felt a hand on his shoulder, a small push at his back and a voice in his ear: "Go. They need you too."

It was Emma. And looking up and forwards Will needed no more encouragement. He jumped the tape and ran forwards. Rachel was the first to spot him, then Tina and Mike. Soon each single member was gathered around him, all sobbing into each other, parents at their shoulders. Will didn't know what to say. He just joined their crying.

But then suddenly, like a wave, a single thought seemed to wash the teens, and almost as one they turned to him. "Kurt?" Mercedes asked in a quavering voice. "Blaine?"

Mr Schuester had no reply. Why were they asking? Why Blaine? "I…I thought they'd be with you?"

"No…no, Kurt went…and then…" The looks in their once innocent eyes were enough to transpose their fears into his heart. He spun wildly, looking for a policeman, anyone to help them. But two more questions, two more names, pressed to his lips before he could do anything else.

"Puck? And Finn?"

Lauren looked up and around herself, almost in surprise. "Noah. He was just, just inside, just talking to them…to the police…" She turned fully now, taking on a responsibility, scanning the crowd for his mom. Finding her standing like Burt and Carole, Lauren ran forwards from her own parents arms to dispel something of the woman's fears.

"And, and Finn?" Will tried again, consciously trying to keep his voice out of range of Carole.

Rachel and Quinn looked up together, looking at each other. "He's fine, fine too."

"But he went to look for Kurt, went to get him, with the cops."

Mr Schuester's heart split. What could he tell them? That one of their sons had gone to look for the other. That only one was safe? He turned away from the group, to face Burt and Carole, hoping his mind would resolve itself once he opened his mouth. But when he turned he saw they were paying him no attention at all. They were staring, shaken, into the gap between the buildings, where the dim outlines of the football posts were just visible. And from this new viewpoint Will could see what they saw. Flashing lights, red and blue, red and blue, illuminating the bright green grass. The lights shadowed a group of figures slowly, ever so carefully, manoeuvring a stretcher into the back of one of a pair of ambulances.

And without thinking Will tore the police tape from in front of the two, pulling them through, through the gates and across to the stairs, heading towards the lights. He heard the shouts of the others as they tried to follow, and the shouts of the cops as they formed ranks to hold them back. But Will, and Carole, and Burt's eyes never deviated from that tiny strip of ground and the shapes within it.


	19. Found

At the back of the school a guarded and barred police van stood waiting. A guard of ten police officers came down a set of concrete steps onto a concrete path, their boots clumping in time. In their midst came a man, bloodied, snivelling. Two of the officers were handcuffed to him. They walked slowly, the man dragging his feet and being pulled along. His eyes were looking around wildly; he stank of alcohol and desperation. His hands twitched in front of himself.

The odd group reached the van, and the chain of three stepped inside. There was a click. One released himself and began to search the prisoner, not taking much care in how hard he patted or how roughly he shook. This man had tried to kill children. Children.

There wasn't much unusual about what they found on him: a lighter, cigarettes, gum, coins, keys. Bullets. There was also a curled, stained, folded letter, and a torn photograph of a high school football team. Hands full, the officer poured the lot into a clear plastic bag and handed it back outside the van before locking himself back into the shackles and lowering himself to the bench. He tried not to look at the pathetic figure sat next to him. He didn't want to lose sleep over this.

* * *

><p>Will seemed to be running through water. Crossing the quad seemed to take until eternity. And in all this time the figures ahead of them never came into focus; he could not tell in Finn or Kurt was among them. His heart pounded as he realised only Kurt was unaccounted for; and only one stretcher had gone into that ambulance. How had he gotten separated from the rest? From Finn? Will knew how protective Finn had become ever since Kurt had transferred back to McKinley. People kept moving in the distance, running backwards and forwards from the vehicles. Getting closer it looked to him like they were all identical; all in uniform, all blank and unidentifiable. As they neared the end of the buildings for a brief second the entire scene was obscured. And then they plunged round the corner. And William's heart jumped in his chest.<p>

Because there was Finn, just ahead of them, watching something hidden within the first ambulance. But as they ran forward his head swivelled and he began to walk, heading towards the open door to the boy's locker room, where police and paramedics swarmed like ants out of a nest. Mr Schue came to a halt, breathing hard. Carole came to his side, followed by a panting Burt. Their faces scanned the figures in front of them, and Will watched as Carole's eyes locked on her son, wandering through the chaos like a veteran, wearing some kind of bulletproof vest, half draped over his stiff shoulders. He saw Finn pause, and then turn back the way he'd come, as if called.

And Carole tore from their sides and ran to him, calling his name, to where he was standing at the back of the ambulance. Burt trailed after, tears in his eyes, chest rising and falling; still looking. Carole buried herself into her son's chest and Finn stood, arms around her, in shock. Burt's eyes locked on his, but then broke to look on the figure in the ambulance. A boy lay there, half propped up by the bed, an oxygen mask being placed carefully over his nose and mouth. Seeing the man looking at him, the exhausted eyes rose, gazing back in puzzled familiarity. The paramedic next to him turned and placed a bloodied football jacket at the foot of the stretcher. But Burt had seen enough; this was not his son. Standing a foot behind his wife he looked Finn dead in the eyes, his voice bottomless and pleading.

"Where is he?"

Finn's eyes didn't change, they were dazed, but his head motioned slowly towards that back door, flicking just as a fresh wave of bodies began to emerge from inside. Then he lowered his head and buried his face in his mother's hair.

Burt turned and began to walk, slowly. People moved slower before him, their movements exaggerated and theatrical. Each step rocked him to the core, to the bottom of his damaged heart. Three policemen came through the door as Burt walked, each gazing behind themselves into the light issuing from the open door. One was missing his vest. Then a man in a green uniform, a paramedic, slinging a red bag over his shoulder and dashing towards a second ambulance. Burt's chest dropped another degree.

Then a green back, linked to green arms, pulling on the handles of another yellow gurney, head flung back in urgency, shouting some instruction. Burt halted altogether, wondering whether his life was about to end. Foam blocks came into view, cradling a head of dark hair which just curled into sight between Velcro fastenings. More straps, a blanket. Another policeman on the far side of the stretcher, holding a fluid bag aloft like a lantern.

And then an arm. A bare arm, capped in a white cuff, attached to more of a white shirt. And a brown head of hair. All facing away from him, bending and running alongside the figure on the stretcher, holding one white hand from under the blankets. But those shoes, those trousers. That form.

"Kurt…" Burt gasped, the breath shuddering from him. His son.

And Kurt heard his own name, blinking in the new darkness of the outside world. Glancing over his shoulder he kept jogging, compelled along by the hand which held his and by each fresh squeeze of pain.

"Kurt." Burt spoke up now, just staring at his son. And this time Kurt saw him and in the darkness their eyes met. His mouth hung, wordlessly; yet his feet still kept time with those running around him. But then they stopped, and reached the ambulance. And Kurt turned back to Blaine's suffering face as his hand was once again drawn from that of the boy he loved. He was forced back, pushed away as figure after figure followed Blaine as he was lifted into the sterile blankness. And the doors were thrown shut.

Kurt stepped backwards and felt himself enveloped by his father's arms; it felt alien and numb. The round shook as engines started and from behind them came another clash of slamming doors. The two vehicles began to move, and their red and blue lights drifted over and away from the remaining crowd. Reaching the edge of the field their two sirens suddenly exploded into the silence.

"My boy, my own boy…" His dad shook with crying, weeping into Kurt's shoulder. Kurt felt his own legs shuddering, and suddenly he was sitting on the cold, damp grass, curled into his father's knees, rocking.

"Dad...dad..." He returned the words. "Oh God, dad…"


	20. Out

Puck slowly descended the steps to the quad, having passed the wreckage of the cafeteria. The female officer he'd confessed everything to walked a pace behind him, answering a stream of questions coming through her radio. Puck heard most of them; most of them were about him. In his head he calculated that it must have been about twenty minutes since he'd seen the window ledge explode underneath Finn. His ribs had begun to ache with pain, from the dive to the floor. His knuckles and forehead hurt too; but all the pains were blunt and dull, next to the searing image of his father's feral face, clenched above that weapon, staring down on him as he crawled against the drums.

He'd told her everything he could think of, and was surprised by how easily it came. For the first few minutes she'd sat in silence, not filling his pauses or asking him questions. Then, with some kind of sudden realisation, she'd reached inside her jacket and pulled out a notepad and pencil, and had begun taking notes on everything he said, glancing up every few lines. And Puck was glad that she'd done that because, as easy as it had seemed, the weight of what he'd told her was now pressing down on his chest, suffocating him on release. He could not repeat the story again. Not tonight.

When he'd finished, when all he'd had to say had finally dried up in his mouth, she'd pressed his hand for a second, a look that he couldn't read in her eyes, and then reached for a radio at her belt. Puck had sat there for a good ten minutes, listening as his story was played back time and again to distant strangers. It sounded odd in someone else's voice, as the other officers moved around them. Like one of those tragic-drama stories that made the front pages of real life magazines; something he would have dismissed as tasteless and fake a few days ago. Hell, he'd not even really thought anything of it all himself until half an hour ago.

Puck reached the foot of the stairs now, and held open the door for the woman to pass through. Two other police officers followed behind her, shouldering huge guns. The sight pulled at something in Puck's chest, and he felt a new nameless fear rise inside of him. Following through the door quickly he made his way back to the front of the group, where he could see only what was in front of him. He became aware of a mesh of noise: deep electrical bass hums, louder voices, single shouts, all sweeping down from the top of the second set of stairs ahead. Puck began to climb them, suddenly paradoxically scared at his own lack of emotion. What was wrong with him? Why wasn't he crying? Or running? Or even still angry? Why did he feel so much nothing?

Puck's head almost reached the level of the top step when the sound of running feet behind him made him look around. Five figures dashed across the concrete, coming from the direction of the football field. Puck's brow creased in confusion. It was Mr Schue, Finn, Finn's mom, Kurt's dad, and Kurt. Briefly his heart leapt within him at seeing that Kurt was ok, but something was obviously wrong. All five had long tear stains down their cheeks. Kurt, sprinting despite himself at the front of the group, looked as Puck had never seen him before. Finn, running behind him, struggled to keep up.

The woman and other officers had reached the same level as Puck now, pausing and also watching their progress. Kurt came to the bottom of the steps to their right and began to scale them, two at a time, stumbling and rising, falling to his hands and knees. Puck tried to call out to him, to ask him what was wrong, as Finn's eyes told him that something was, but his voice stuck in his throat.

"Kurt! Stop!" The older boy caught up with him now, grabbing him by the shoulders and trying to hold him back, but Kurt shrugged him off with strange ferocity and tried to keep climbing. Finn tried again and again, and finally, on reaching level with Puck and his own ghostly group, managed to wrestle Kurt firmly into his arms. Puck watched as Kurt's arms flailed and hit out, pounding against Finn's chest. But the bigger boy only pulled his struggling brother closer. And suddenly Kurt's arms hung, and he crumpled forwards, letting Finn take his entire weight. Their parents closed in around them, Carole and Burt wrapping their arms too around Kurt. Mr Schue stood awkwardly to one side for a moment, and then continued to climb the stairs, his chest heaving.

Puck followed his example, reaching the top of the stairs and walking out onto the plateau of the school entrance and parking lot, leaving behind the too raw emotions of his friends. But again Puck had to stop. The entire road was covered in lights and cars, crushed in next to each other, swarming with people. Near the gates, nearest him, one crowd was gathered, all staring in his direction. Amongst them were the faces of all his friends, all those who had shared the experience with him. '_But none of them know_…' said a voice inside him. And Puck couldn't move. He felt cornered. What had he done to these people? To Kurt and Finn? His father. His family. His fault. He saw Lauren, pushing through the crowd to the front, to a line of police and tape. Her hand flew into the air, waving to him, beckoning him over. How close had everything he'd done come to almost killing her?

Then Puck's heart almost stopped completely. Lauren's other hand emerged from behind her back, pulling a small woman after it. The woman's face was drawn and tired, with tears streaming down it and red and blue lights flashing over it. His mother. And she didn't know either. And he'd have to tell her. Tell her about yet another disaster he'd caused. About all the people he'd hurt, about how selfish he'd been to want revenge, how cowardly he'd felt went faced with that gun…

Fear returned to fill the gap in Puck's emotions. But it kept rising, overflowing, overwhelming. The woman's hand came onto Puck's arm again, gently pushing him forwards. He turned to look at her and saw only the dark shape of the school. He wanted to go back, back inside, and face his fate like a man. Between himself and his father no-one had dealt the final blow, no-one had won here. Puck's entire body shuddered. The woman pushed gently again and another officer took hold of his other arm, walking him forwards towards the crowd and lights. He saw Mr Schue, who'd reached the crowd, call out something to all the others there, all their faces swivelling to his. But Puck, still moving forwards, could not make out what was said. Then Mr Schue kept walking, disappearing into the mass of bodies.

Puck reached the tape and it was lifted over his head. Lauren's arms seized him and threw him towards his mother. Puck let her hug him again and again, reaching his arms around her small frame instinctively, all the time staring over her head at the mass of cops. How many of them knew? What were they going to do?

"Sorry, ma'am," came a familiar voice at Puck's elbow. It was that same officer. "But could you come with us for a moment. I think there are a number of things we need you both to help us with."

Puck looked the uniformed woman in the face, and saw terrible seriousness behind her kind eyes. Puck's mother looked at the woman and then up at him. Before she could ask any questions, Puck began to walk, and she followed, arms still linked around her boy's waist.

* * *

><p>Will's breath was long gone by the time he'd reached the police tape, but he kept going. Yanking it over his head he dived forwards, he needed to find Emma. The kids closed around him instinctively.<p>

"Sir! Sir? Mr Schue? Where's Kurt? Where's Finn? Are they ok?" Will looked up at them all and realised he had to say something of what was impressed on his mind; what he had seen down on the football field and what was still playing out somewhere behind him, down those cold steps. He cleared his throat, purposefully still pressing into the crowd, anxious to reach the back.

"They're fine." His voice was so small and stifled. He tried clearing his throat. "They're fine. They're coming back; coming up now." He found himself staring Rachel in the eyes. "But…" He couldn't hold her gaze. He looked at the ground. "Blaine…Blaine got hurt…" His mind found no other way of phrasing it. He felt the circle tighten around him with collective disbelief.

"But…but he's ok, right?" He didn't know who was talking now. He had to keep moving.

"I don't know. Sorry guys, I really don't know. But I have to go…I'm sorry…" Thrusting his hands out in front of himself he pushed through the last line of parents, feeling the last pairs of eyes fall from the back of his head. And Will could look up again, through the tears gathering in his eyes. Emma. Emma.

He found her moments later, sitting on that same wall with Figgins. He stopped before them, gathering his breath to speak. But Figgins opened his mouth first.

"William, what happened? Are you ok? The kids?"

"Kurt?" Whispered Emma.

"He's fine; not hurt. He's just coming up now." Will saw her eyes turn worriedly on him; he knew his voice gave away more of what he had to say. "Have you still got your cell phone?" She pulled in out into her hand and waved it once. Will looked at both of them. "We need to call the Karofskys. Dave was in there too. He was hurt." Emma's eyes widened, her hand rushing to her mouth. But then she nodded and stood up, pulling herself away to the side and beginning to dial, pulling a thick list of names from inside her bag.

* * *

><p>As Will sank to the wall, Finn climbed over the last step of the courtyard, his brother, mom and stepdad next to him. Burt took hold of his son again as the four of them climbed under the tape. Kurt felt the eyes of the entire club, all over on his left hand side, on him as he walked. He wanted so badly to go and hug them all, to go and cry with them. But he had to go; had to. He had to follow Blaine. His legs ached to run again, to shorten the time between them. He heard Blaine's fragile voice in his head: '<em>Is it enough to say I love you?'<em>

They passed quickly through the cars, Burt leading the way now, with Carole holding Finn and Kurt's hands. Suddenly a door was open before Kurt, and he slid sideways into a seat. Someone bent and fastened his belt over him, like a toddler. He had no reaction. Blaine's voice kept playing over and over in his head. Then they were moving, Finn next to him, his father's badly balding head in front. Lights flashed past. Kurt's finger's plucked at the ring of dark hardness on the front of his T-shirt and the tackiness of the dried blood stayed on his fingers. '_Is it enough to say I love you?' _

Kurt just wished he'd said it one more time.


	21. News

Finn sat in a sanitised hospital chair, staring at the greasy grey floor through his fingers, eyes half shut. His elbows dug into his knees as the weight of his pounding head rested in his hands. He was exhausted. The air smelt foul, overly clean, visibly hiding the smell of something worse. His mother's hand ran slowly up and down his bent back; the motion was starting to make him feel sick and was moving over emerging bruises, but he didn't want her to stop. It had already paused once, as Dave Karofsky's parents were ushered through the waiting room and down a corridor. He knew it would stop again when Burt and Kurt came back, whatever news they brought. For the moment, in Finn's addled brain, no news was definitely good news.

"Do you want a coffee?" His mum spoke softly.

Finn began to shake his head, but it made him dizzy, so he whispered back. "No, thanks."

"Some water? Something to eat?"

"No mum. Honestly, I'm fine." What a lie.

"You're sure you don't want to see someone? About your arms? About anything?" When they had first sunk into the chairs and Finn had rolled back his sleeve to try and free something of the suffocating atmosphere, he'd been surprised to find his arms laced with splintered cuts from the window ledge.

"No mum." Her hands squeezed his shoulders.

"Ok."

* * *

><p>Thirty minutes later, with no sight of her husband or stepson, Carole finally succumbed and went to find a vending machine. In reality she knew exactly where it was; just round one corner, to the right of the reception desk. She knew because of the hours she'd spent here when Burt had been ill. In her mind the building represented something of a threat to her family and she didn't like it. But the coffee was hot and passable, and that was all she needed right now. She glanced as her watch as the plastic cup slowly filled. It was ten to midnight. She sighed and walked back, sipping the burning liquid.<p>

As she came back around the corner she saw a small, dyed blonde woman standing in front of Finn, talking to him closely. Her son's face was so sombre and drained, but his eyes were earnest and intent as the woman spoke. As Carole walked back Finn reached out to the stranger, offering her one of the tissues from the pack Carole had found in her bag earlier. She head snippets of conversation until she came and sat down again by her son, resting the hot plastic on a low table strewn with outdated magazines.

"…but Kurt was with him the whole time…"

"I know. I mean, he told me almost as much. I just…his father's out of town…and I couldn't reach him on the phone, so I had to leave a message…how can you leave a message explaining something like this?"

Finn turned to his mom as she sat back down, watching the steaming cup. "Mom; this is Blaine's mother…" Finn turned back, gesturing, and suddenly realised his rudeness. He stood up and offered her his seat, even though the floor rocked beneath him and his back cried out against it. With a weak smile she sank into it.

"Thank you." She turned to Carole, pressing the scrunched tissue below her eyes. "I'm Wendy, Wendy Anderson." She offered her hand and Carole took it in both of hers, tears springing sympathetically into her eyes.

"I'm so sorry Wendy." Carole kept hold of the poor woman's hand instinctively.

Mrs Anderson sniffed and gave the same watery, thin lipped look of acceptance. Then she sighed and strained her back. She placed her other hand on top of Carole's two and turned to include Finn. "I've heard a lot about you all. Blaine's told me almost everything, I think." She smiled sadly to herself. "He wouldn't shut up about it. About Kurt. It was almost as bad as when he discovered the Sound of Music." Carole smiled gently; she was sure Burt could empathise. "It's nice to finally meet you all at last." Her voice betrayed her to Finn; there were no worse circumstances in which to meet, yet the woman was as polite and genuine as her son.

Carole noticed it too, but spoke up, not wanting to let the poor woman's mind wander. "Blaine is a wonderful boy." Wendy's lip quivered and she lifted her hand to wipe her eyes again, gripping the tissue in her fist, watching her hand intently. "Kurt looks up to him so much; from the first day he went to Dalton, he was a different boy." Mrs Anderson nodded quietly. There was silence for a moment as Finn shifted awkwardly on his feet and Carole realised she wasn't going to drink her coffee.

"Mrs Anderson saw Kurt, mom." Finn prompted. Carole looked up at him then down at the woman.

"You did?"

"Yes. He was outside the room they put Blaine in, sitting on the floor when I came out. I recognised him from Regionals." Carole didn't know what question to ask next; Wendy obviously was not able to broker the subject of Blaine's condition on her own.

"Did…did you see my husband?" The stranger creased her eyes and shook her head, pursing her lips in thought.

"No…no, Kurt was alone. But I think he tried to say something about someone going to get a drink."

"So you spoke to him?"

"Yes…yes, he wanted to know how Blaine was. He told me a little of what happened." She shuddered and tears filled her eyes. "But I still have no idea what really happened to him. None…none of this is supposed to happen to my baby…" Her voice began to break with every breath, growing angry.

Carole mumbled "I know, I know," quietly, gently rubbing the back one hand as the other drove away the tears.

"And…and…" She reached into a pocket and pulled out an old cell phone, flashing it demonstratively, "his father…but I had nothing really to tell him…and they said something about a CT scan, whatever that is, and going step by step, and to wait out here…but I don't understand…and they wouldn't let me stay with him…but he looked so quiet, and so pale, and he couldn't hear me…and he wouldn't wake up…"

Carole reached forwards and rocked the woman onto her shoulder, holding her as the sobs rolled out of her chest. Her eyes flickered at Finn, sharing the understanding. Blaine was unconscious, serious, and Kurt was waiting, alone. Finn touched his mother's shoulder lightly.

"Send Burt back here if you see him." Carole whispered.

He nodded, then turned and slowly started down the corridor Blaine's mother had emerged from.

* * *

><p>Kurt was bargaining with a God. Alone again he had slumped against the pastel cream wall and slid down it to the floor. Four feet away, across the corridor were two doors, hinged to swing in either direction, but closed. Behind their frosted glass, Kurt saw shadowy figures moving backwards and forwards. Occasionally a doctor or a nurse would come through one door, pushing it open just enough to slide through. And then Kurt caught a glimpse of pale green curtains and stainless steel trolleys. The doctor or nurse would glance at him for a second and then move on. He was glad they did. Their jobs were far too important to worry about moving a lonely teenager. And every time they moved out of sight he went back to his bargaining, not caring if he gave up his principles on God if it saved the boy he loved.<p> 


	22. Floor

Footsteps.

"Kurt?"

"...and...and I'll run a marathon...two marathons...as many as it takes..."

"Kurt?"

"...and I'll never get angry with dad, or mum, or Karofsky, or Blaine, I promise...I'll become an envoy, a peace envoy..."

"Kurt."

A shadow paused on top of Kurt's closed eyes, but he kept them shut. He'd promised it. He wouldn't open them again until Blaine did. The shadow shifted and a hand rested on his bare arm, He realised he was cold; he was still only wearing the white T-shirt he'd had on under his shirt. His hands were clasped in his lap, not palm to palm, but laced together, as he'd seen the believers do in Mercedes' church. He could tell by the voice that Finn had come to find him. He fought the urge to open his eyes; what if Finn had news? But he'd promised not to, and it was the least he could do whilst Blaine fought...fought for his life. The tight, confused face of Blaine's mother, so similar to him in many ways, with those fantastic eyes, drifted in front of him.

The hand came off his arm and he felt Finn slide to sit next to him against the wall. An arm came over and wrapped around his shoulders.

"What are you doing here?" The voice was sympathetic, but the question woke all the thoughts which had been catapulting around Kurt's mind for the last half hour.

"Nothing..." His voice was dead. "I'm doing absolutely nothing. I'm useless. I can't help; I can't do anything...I'm just sitting here making wild promises, and praying that something good might finally happen today..." His eyelids twitched but he held them closed; the darkness was kind and soothing to his red, sore eyes.

Finn shifted to straighten his back against the wall. "No, you are doing something. You're here for him. That's most important thing you can do right now, you know? Because as soon as he wakes up he's gonna want to see you. And I know you; you're not going to leave that room until he's better than ok. You're gonna be the best damn boyfriend nurse ever." Kurt sniffed and smiled weakly; it was true.

"Thanks, Finn." He felt the arm round his shoulders twitch as if to say, 'No worries.'

"Where's your dad gone?"

"I think...I think he said he was going to find something to eat...or for a walk...or something..." Kurt shut up as he heard the sound of the swing door across the corridor open slightly, but Finn ignored it. A pair of small heels clacked down the hall away from them.

"You saw Blaine's mom?" Finn's voice was slow and careful.

"Yeah."

"You talked to her?"

"Uh hu." Finn gave a small sensitive squeeze of Kurt's shoulder. It was obvious that he would have to take the lead in this conversation.

"She came down to the waiting room. She recognised me. We had a nice talk. Apparently Blaine won't shut up about you." He felt Kurt's back stiffen slightly. "I told her I knew what she meant." He smiled slightly and swallowed. "She was so grateful for everything you did for Blaine."

Kurt sniffed once more and turned his face slightly to the side. His fingers played again with the blood stain on his shirt. His arms remembered the weight they had carried haltingly down that dark corridor. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

"What did she say, Kurt?" Kurt sobbed, but then breathed deeply. Another of his promises had been not to cry as much, and he fought to keep it. Instead he stared into the blackest blackness of his eyelids, with the bursting painfully before him.

"She...she came out with this doctor and saw me...she looks just like him in some ways, Finn...and the doctor looked and then walked off. But she just stayed and watched me; watched my face. I guess she was trying to place me...and then she asked: "Are you Kurt?" and I said yes. And she came forwards and I stood up...she's just as small as him...but...but she saw the blood...on my shirt...and she started crying, and asked if it was his...and I said yes again." Finn shuffled closer, trying to catch every snuffled word.

"So she asked what had happened, and I tried to tell her, but I couldn't...didn't get very far...and she kept asking: "Were you with him? Were you with him all the time?" over and over again. She wanted to know everything he said...how long he was quiet..." Kurt paused for a second. "She...she asked if he'd said anything about her...and I didn't know what to say, Finn, because he hadn't...so I just started crying, but I think she knew..." Finn gently rocked his brother's shoulders; he had no idea what he could possibly say.

"I think she almost walked off...but then I asked if he was ok; and I couldn't stop my questions..." Kurt waved his arm expressively with each phrase, eyes still absurdly shut. "Was he ok...was he awake...was he in pain...what did the doctors say...could I see him...what were they doing..." he shook his hand at the door, "...in there... and then she just looked at me...God, Finn, like I had no right to know...like I had no right to have been the last person to talk to her son...and left..." Kurt broke down now, and broke his promise, curling his knees up and burying his face in them, his sobs echoing down the hall. Finn thought back to those strained, quiet words Mrs Anderson had used about her conversation with Kurt. Now he saw the tension and pain behind them.

"She was just angry, Kurt. Irrationally, yeah; but can you blame her?"

Kurt swallowed his tears, speaking into his legs. "But...but...I still don't know, Finn...I still have no idea what's going on..."

Finn realised he had only part of the answer. "She said something about a CT scan."

Kurt, still crying, decided his promises were empty. He opened his eyes and looked up at Finn, leaning against the wall. "What?"

"When she was talking to mom...she still wouldn't really say anything...but she did say something about a scan..."

Kurt wiped his eyes on his bare arm. "But what else? Is that bad? Is that good? Does that mean they don't need to operate or anything?"

Finn felt helpless. "I really don't know, Kurt." Kurt looked into the distance for a few seconds. Finn saw a doctor appear at the opposite end of the corridor, walking quickly towards them. Finn thought for a second. And then lifted his arm from Kurt and made to stand up. Kurt's hand flapped at his jeans, his eyes silently willing him not to leave, but Finn took hold of it and placed it back in his lap with the other. He turned to Kurt's face and whispered, "I don't know, but I'm gonna find out."

Finn walked one pace out into the centre of the hallway, turning to face the approaching doctor. He ran his hand through his hair nervously, then moved forwards, working tears back into his own eyes. "Ex...excuse me?" He stuttered. The doctor looked up with kind eyes. Finn pointed to the doors. "My...my brother's in there...do you know what's happening? I just got here...and I can't find anything out...and I can't find my mom...but I need to know."

The doctor stopped with one hand on the doors. "What's your name, son?"

"Uh..." said Finn, still stuttering in the role. "It's...it's Anderson...Will Anderson."

"And his name?"

"Blaine...Blaine Anderson."

"Okay. I'll see what I can find out for you; just wait here a sec, alright?" The doctor slid through the door with a tiny glance at Kurt.

* * *

><p><strong>I love the reviews you guys have been giving :) sooo supportive :) especially kurtsiegirl - thanks so much for my hug :D *hugs back*! And *a tissue* to all of you that have been saying its making you cry :(! I'm sorry!<strong>

***Hug of support* and a promise - an unbreakable one, not like Kurt's ;) - happiness will come...I just have to work the angst first :P**

**Love xxx**


	23. Lies

Finn stood, slowly kicking the toe of his shoe against the pale cream wall of the hallway. It had been almost five minutes since the doctor had left them. Kurt's eyes had not left the door since it had closed. Finn's slight adrenaline rush at his daring lie was wearing off; now he was simply worried at the thinness of his bluff. Who was he trying to kid? He looked nothing like Blaine; he was at least half a foot taller, he knew really little about the kid. What if the doctor asked what Blaine's birthday was, or where he'd been born? All innocent, simple questions that a brother should know. Finn ran his hand through his hair again.

"What exactly are you doing?" It was the first time Kurt had spoken in those five minutes. His voice was low.

"What?" Finn was startled by the slight malice behind it.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"Kurt; I'm just trying to help…"

"They wouldn't let me in Finn; they wouldn't let his mother stay in there, what makes you think you have any better chance?"

"Kurt, come on man. It was the first thing that came into my head. Alright, it might not be the best idea…" Kurt snorted. "But you said you wanted to know, and now we might actually have a chance at finding out. So don't get angry…"

"Did you not think I might have thought of the same idea in my half hour on this floor, waiting for anyone to tell me anything?"

Finn sighed and stopped himself from saying anything that might make the situation worse. Kurt was tired, hurt and worried, he reminded himself. He doesn't mean any of this.

"They'll have checks, you know." Finn swallowed. "They can't just tell people stuff because they say they're related."

"I know, alright?" Finn couldn't stop his voice from rising slightly. "Ok, so it seems stupid now, and it's probably not going to work, but what if it does? You're my brother and I'm trying to help you. I know you're upset, but don't let it get the better of you."

Kurt looked at the floor, ashamed. Finn turned back to the wall with a sigh; he just wanted this whole nightmare to be over.

But then the door was flung open, with far more force than had ever occurred before, and the doctor reappeared struggling into a white coat. Kurt's stomach pitched at the expression of worried haste on his face. He turned left, towards Finn, almost breaking into a run before he saw him. The look on his face changed to one of self-frustration and his hand flew up to his temple. He skidded to a halt. Finn realised the doctor had forgotten them.

"Oh…Mr…Mr Anderson, right?"

He looked left and right, seeing if there was anyone else in the corridor. His eyes caught on Kurt. As the door banged closed Kurt scrabbled himself from the floor and flew to Finn's side. The doctor watched but the shook his head; he was still slowly walking forwards, ready to break back into a run at any moment.

"Yes." Finn watched the doctor uneasily; there was obviously something more important on his mind.

"Um…uh…" The doctor was slightly out of breath. One arm into the coat, he kept catching the other in its outside pocket. Still he kept moving, almost a metre past Finn now. His chest kept rising and falling; he was quite young, and Kurt could see some panicking fear in his eyes. He glanced at his watch, looked the pair of them up and down again, and then threw his arm in the direction of the doors. "Go…go through…Trauma Bay Four…tell them who you are and tell them Doctor Harris said it was ok." And he turned on his heel and ran. In the furthest distance Kurt could hear the sound of multiple sirens. It struck him that they, all of them, all the kids, were just a dot in time for a place like this.

As the doctor's steps echoed around the corner and out of hearing, Finn turned to Kurt, holding out an arm. Their eyes met and Finn saw into all of Kurt's fears and hopes and worries.

"You sure you're ok to do this?"

Kurt swallowed and nodded. Finn tentatively put an arm around his shoulders again, pulling them both round to face the doors. Pushing Kurt slightly in front of him, he placed a hand of each of his shoulders and guided him forwards. As Kurt stretched out his hand to push one of the doors open Finn felt his tense, and his face turned slightly to the side.

"Finn…I'm sorry; I shouldn't have doubted you…"

Finn squeezed those shoulders again. "It's forgotten. Just concentrate on you, and Blaine, ok? And I'm here for you. I'm always gonna be here for you."

In his mind, Finn was saying all the words he'd wanted to say and doing all the things he'd imagined doing in that long dark hour under the piano. How many promises had he made, just like Kurt, in that time? Kurt gathered himself and pushed the door open.

* * *

><p>Blaine was having a dream. Or, at least he thought it was a dream. It was really vivid; but at the same time studded with blotchy lights and blazing, hazy colours. And there was pain, which was odd; a strange, underlying vague pain. He couldn't remember ever being in pain in a dream before.<p>

Come to think of it, he couldn't remember ever dreaming and being able to think he was dreaming at the same time before. The train of thought was too confusing, causing the pain to amplify, and he abandoned it. Instead he focused on what he could see before himself.

He was at school; in one of those long panelled corridors which ran down the east wing at Dalton, studded with bookcases and flowers and ornate sculptures. He had his uniform on, the blazer and trousers feeling comfortable and natural against his skin. He saw his hands do up the first button on his jacket. And then suddenly the hand was grasped; and somehow without looking Blaine could tell that it was Kurt. He was pulled along, watching as his feet ran, but unable to look up. His heart rushed with desire to see Kurt, to look at his smiling face, to touch those smooth cheeks as they blushed so innocently, to kiss those lips…but his head felt as heavy as a rock; too heavy for his neck. He couldn't, not even with all his effort, lift it. All he could see was a hand, pale and beautiful, wrapped around his own in security.

But suddenly Blaine became aware of something behind them; again without looking. He could just tell it was there. They seemed to be running faster and faster, and Blaine could feel Kurt pulling with more urgency on his hand. But he was slipping. Slowly, slowly, millimetre by millimetre. And he knew he could not keep going on his own.

They hurtled through the doorway at the end of the hallway, with long, floor length mirrors flanking it on either side. And as his eyes caught the mirror, Blaine saw what it was that pursued them.

It was darkness. Smothering, consuming darkness, pouring over everything from wall to ceiling like a cresting wave. Terror, cold dead terror was chasing them.

Blaine felt his feet being to stumble, felt his fingers slip again. But he thrust his other hand out, wrapping it around Kurt's wrist. He couldn't let go. He was so scared. The pain began to grow again.

"It's just a dream…just a dream…" He told himself. Then why couldn't he wake up?

From all around him, fighting through the pain and heaviness of his head, he heard Kurt's voice.

"Wake up, Blaine. Please…just wake up…"


	24. Understandings

Kurt stood dumbly by Blaine's bedside, holding that hand again. Except this time he was careful, ever so careful, not to nudge the IV line which snaked under the skin. One of a flustered group of doctors was explaining something to Finn at the foot of the bed. Kurt was only half listening. He was staring into Blaine's closed eyes; at his dark, almost bruised, eyelids, willing them to open. He pressed the hand held in his; but there was no response.

A machine to his left bleeped and whirred into life. Kurt looked round at the doctor in concern, but the man ignored it. Instead a nurse emerged from within another square of green curtains across the room and came towards them. She walked down the opposite side of the bed to Kurt, running her hand motherly over Blaine's covers. Adjusting two gauges and noting figures on a clipboard chart attached to the wall behind the bed, she turned to Kurt. The machine behind him slowed and bleeped out of life. She smiled, almost sadly. "Are you a relative of Blaine's?"

Kurt didn't have the energy or the will to lie. "No…I'm his boyfriend."

The nurse's expression didn't change. She took up Blaine's wrist in her hand and felt his pulse, checking it against the watch on her chest. Kurt watched, comforted by the apparent routine. She looked up at him again.

"He obviously likes you very much." She said, smiling. Kurt was confused; he didn't follow.

"Try talking to him. I know people say it only works in the movies, or on TV, but trust me, sometimes just the sound of a loved one can help people get better faster."

Kurt looked at her hesitantly for a moment. He still didn't quite understand. But he bent down to Blaine's ear all the same, just visible below the wide band of white which crowned his beautiful face.

"Wake up, Blaine," he whispered, "Please…just wake up…" Less than an inch away from those perfect eyes, a tear felt from Kurt's lashes, rolling down Blaine's cheek like a pearl on silk. Sniffing, he straightened up. The nurse was still watching him, the smile twitching at the corners of her mouth. She replaced Blaine's arm on the blanket carefully. Kurt watched that face again; Blaine's glossy mahogany curls seemed to grow straight out of the pure bandage, spewing across its top edge. For some reason it made him think of cress in an eggshell.

He realised Finn's hands were at his back again.

"Kurt?" His voice was tentative. He didn't want to break a moment. He didn't want Kurt to have to leave at all, but the doctor insisted. As if to emphasise this, the doctor walked past them, rippling the green curtain which divided Blaine from whatever other pain the room contained. He reached up to the various machines, all bleeping with discord, and began to slowly disconnect some of them, placing the limp leads beside Blaine's head on the bed. The nurse, noticing, began the same procedure on her side. "Kurt, we have to go now, ok?"

Kurt blinked wordlessly. He let Blaine's hand slip from his onto the white sheet. Together the two of them walked to the end of the bed and into the central isle of the room. Finn stepped aside as a bed carrying a small girl was rolled along and out of the doors they had come through. The girl was wrapped in blanket after blanket, pale clear fluid swinging in bags above her. A matron with a teddy bear walked alongside the porters, waving it at her playfully. Kurt had moved towards Blaine's bed as the little girl passed, and as he turned to rejoin Finn he saw the nurse come alongside him. She touched his hand and pointed to the watch which hung, upside down from Kurt's view, on her uniform.

"Did you understand why I said to talk to him?"

Kurt shook his head slowly; he'd never been one to believe in the melodrama of ER and those awful hospital soaps.

"His pulse. It was quicker when you were here. Quicker again when you were talking to him."

Kurt's eyes widened.

"He's fighting. And I wouldn't be surprised if it's for you."

She walked away, taking a tray from a trolley to one side and immediately stepping into another cubicle. Kurt walked to Finn's side, wondering.

"What did she say?"

Kurt considered telling him. "Nothing."

They reached the doors. Finn walked through and turned left, turning them back towards the waiting room. Kurt followed him. Then a thought struck him; lost in Blaine, he'd forgotten to listen, forgotten to ask.

"Wait…wait; what did the doctor say?"

Finn kept walking, although he faltered slightly at the question. Kurt ran to catch up with him, and coming alongside him looked up into his eyes.

"Finn? Finn…"

His eyes were deliberative. Inside himself Finn was struggling to find the words that the doctor had used, and was calculating how much, if he really hadn't heard anything, he should tell Kurt. And how much he could tell Kurt. He wished there were more people around, like Burt or his mom to help out. But then Kurt ran in front of him and stopped dead, looking him straight in the eye. Finn stopped too, a metre separating them. He ran a hand across his face, resting his knuckles on his forehead so that they left a string of small white marks. In a wild though thought Kurt recognised it as the same gesture Blaine had made, right after their first kiss. Something rose in his throat and breathing became harder.

With a sigh from behind his hand Finn lent against the wall. Then he moved his arm away and looked at Kurt.

"Ok…ok…" He slowed and twitched with agitation. "Ah, why couldn't you just have been listening?" Kurt just watched him, his eyes still wide and filled with the memory of Blaine's silent face.

Finn breathed again. "The doctor said pretty much what his mom said…but, I mean, he said it clearer. They're gonna do some scans and tests and stuff…"

Kurt jumped in. "But, but why haven't they done them already? I mean, he's been here almost an hour already?"

Finn let him finish. "They said they had to get him stabilised. He'd lost a lot of blood, Kurt. And they decided…well, they thought…they thought moving him might be too dangerous until his blood pressure and the swelling…" Finn winced at the word, "had levelled out. A bit."

Kurt just kept watching him, unblinkingly, processing. "Wha…what 'swelling'?"

"They think whatever hit him caused some swelling on his…" Finn winced again, "his brain. It's…it's called a 'cerebral contusion' or something; a bruise on the brain." Kurt gaped, wordlessly. "They can't be sure, of course, until they do the scans and the tests or whatever. But that's probably why he kept drifting in and out at school; and it's why he won't wake up now."

Finn waited a moment for the words to clear from the air. "The doctor said he might also have a fractured skull, but apparently that's not as serious. But, Kurt;" he said, reaching forward. The other boy's eyes were unfocused now, gazing into the distance but unseeing. "He's in the right place; and they're doing everything they can. And the doctor said that they were about ready to take him to get his scans now; that's why we had to leave. So everyone's doing their bit, yeah? As long as they can control it and give him the right drugs to help, then he said everything is likely to work out fine in the long run…"

Kurt stuttered. "The long run?"

"Yeah."

"And what if it doesn't?"

"What?" Finn tried to deflect the question.

"Tell me, Finn. I want to know."

The serious eyes of the doctor flew across his mind; he'd been so insistent that Finn understood that there were still huge risks. How much could he share? Finn blinked for a second. He decided. Kurt deserved his honesty. Sugaring anything might just make everything worse in time.

"Um…if…if they can't control it, or if the injury is worse than it appears, then…" Finn's voice choked in his throat. Kurt's eyes told him he'd understood, though.

"Then…then he won't wake up?" Finn could only nod. The fear and defeated hope in Kurt's voice broke his heart.

"Or, or it might cause some kind of permanent damage."

"Brain damage?" Again he nodded. They stood in silence.

Until, what seemed like hours later, the doors, half a corridor behind them now, were flung open again and a bed was wheeled out, flanked by nurses and the same doctor. Kurt's heart jumped from a cliff. He couldn't see Blaine through the myriad of sheets and bandages and people; but he knew it was him. He set off into another pounding run, the next in an apparently countless line that evening, but once again Finn grabbed for him and held him.

"No, Kurt. You can't go. Not yet."

Blaine disappeared round the end of the corridor, and Finn turned Kurt back towards the waiting room; towards his family.


	25. Waking

"So, what? We just have to wait?"

"Yes, love...apparently they really can't tell anything else for the moment..."

Finn heard the words before he knew what they meant. In the darkness behind his closed eyes they made little sense. There was a swooshing, clicking noise; as if a door was being closed. For a moment he thought he might still be dreaming; although he'd had the strangest dream about running and voices and singing and running again and glass and bright red stains...But the darkness he was looking into at the moment was not his dream. Two voices started up again, one old, one new. Both were hoarse and hollow, on the very edge of emotional.

"...if I could ever go through something like that..."

"Did you hear? He found him in the corridor...carried him to the locker room himself...that's where Karofsky was."

"No..."

This time Finn listened properly to the words, but didn't string them into sentences. He still felt very drowsy. But they awoke images in his mind, of the boys' locker room at school, of Karofsky, of clinging hands. He couldn't place the thoughts; perhaps they were part of his dream.

"...I just can't believe about Puck...God, for someone like that to actually be related to you..."

"Do we know that it's true, though?"

Another voice joined in, higher and haughtier.

"Yes...my dad has people he knows at the police station. He went in there earlier to find out what was going on. He said Puck was still there, with his mom. I think it's pretty clear..."

Finn's mind fuzzed, and then cleared. He became aware of his body. He was lying down, covered by something. The darkness was only the back of his closed eyes. The pale light of some room was coming in through them. That's where the voices were coming from. He opened his eyes.

The light was dim, but he could see three people, sitting around a table. With his head still on its side they were at a weird angle, but from their voices and their outlines Finn thought he could recognise Rachel, Mercedes and Quinn. There was a loud snore, and flicking his eyes to the left, Finn saw Tina and Mike curled together in a chair. Sam sat next to them, also asleep. On his chest was a ghostly white object; a sling. When had that happened?

Seeing Finn shuffle on the low couch, one of the girls got up and walked towards him. It was Rachel. She reached out her hand, laying it lightly on his shoulder, on top of the blanket.

"Hey...hey, Finn." She smiled weakly. "How do you feel?"

Finn sniffed. There was a strange smell. He wasn't at home; he wasn't at school. He looked around once more, confused.

"Do you want me to get someone? Your mom? Burt? A nurse?"

A nurse? Finn's brain struggled to shift the last of the sleep, to process the situation. But then suddenly he understood. Suddenly he remembered everything.

He sat bolt upright, his head spinning. Rachel jumped, springing backwards. Mercedes and Quinn twisted to watch him.

"Kurt?" He said, looking at her face, trying to gauge anything he might have missed. How stupid had he been to fall asleep? He couldn't even remember lying down; but how long had he been out? How much had he missed? "Kurt? Blaine?"

Rachel came back towards him, crouching so that she was near his face. Finn put his arms down either side of him, hands on the couch to steady himself. Her eyes were wet, but there were no fresh tears on her cheeks. She placed a hand on his cheek. Finn sensed Quinn shift uncomfortably.

"Kurt's fine; he's with his dad. And Blaine…well…how much do you remember?"

Finn's mind lurched and flashed. He saw himself, telling Kurt everything the doctor had said, in the corridor. "Um…um…he was just going for the scans. They thought it might be…might be a…'cerebral contusion' or something?" Something told him he'd remember that phrase for the rest of his life.

Rachel ran her hand down to his shoulder, watching it as it went. "Well, he came back from them. And he got through the night." Finn shuddered; had there been a point where Blaine might not have? "So that's all good. And the results were ok. I mean, apparently they could be better, but he's still got a pretty good chance. But…" She paused. Finn's shouts had woken Sam and Mike, who sat with Tina still resting against him. Everyone was watching them. "The pressure…" Rachel paused again; like Finn she could hardly bring herself to say the next words. "On his brain; well, it hasn't gone down, not like they hoped. So…" She glanced up at a clock on the wall as Finn processed what this could mean. "About half an hour ago, they took him up to theatre."

Finn's eyes lost all focus. "Wh…what?"

"Your mom's just been in; to let us know what was going on. She'd seen Blaine's mom and got her to tell her what was happening. The doctors say…" her eyes rocked slightly, rolling upwards with the effort of trying to remember, "that it's pretty routine, as far as head trauma goes. And that at the same time they can fuse the fracture he's got…" She drew with her finger, a thin, curving line on Finn's scalp, "here."

When her finger lifted, Finn could still feel the mark as if it had been burnt into his skin. He mouthed wordlessly; he wanted to see his mom. He looked around the small, pale room.

"Where are we?"

"In a private waiting room." Her voice and face crinkled slightly. "Quinn's dad paid for it. You were in the family bedroom when we got here though. They moved you so you could be with us."

Finn remembered none of it. He twisted where he sat, trying to glimpse the clock, but his still overtired brain wouldn't convert the blurred movements into anything coherent. Cautiously lifting a hand he ran it over his face. He could use a shower and a wash; but didn't know if he could manage it.

"What time is it?"

"Almost midday."

Finn panicked again, and tried to get up, but the effort was too much. His legs collapsed beneath him, and Rachel had to guide him back down onto the couch.

"Are you sure we shouldn't get a nurse?" It was Mercedes. "Kurt was spaced out when he woke up; but not this badly."

"Are you ok?" Rachel asked Finn earnestly.

"I…I don't know. I feel weird."

"They gave you and Kurt something to help you sleep. A sedative or something."

Finn pressed his eyes closed and opened them again, trying to get some control. But as he did so, another question entered his mind.

"Wait…what…you said something about Puck…where is he? When did you guys get here?"

Rachel looked round at the others, but when none of them spoke she went on.

"We got here about seven. As soon as our parents would bring us. Artie, Santana and Brittany weren't allowed, yet, but we're letting them know everything that happens. And Sam was here overnight anyway." Finn looked over to his friend. Sam's head was hung, his chin resting on the top of his sling as he listened. Finn's mind flashed back to that gun slamming against something above his head, and then to Sam staggering to sit on the stage, cradling his arm. He thought he understood. "Your mom and Burt came to see us when we got here. I don't think they'd been to sleep."

"But, but what about Puck? And Lauren? I heard something…something about the police?" Finn couldn't understand why the friend who'd probably saved his life a day ago would choose not to come.

"You heard that, did you?" Rachel's voice was sweet and caring, but she glanced round anxiously again. She didn't want to be the one to explain the story. Especially as they only had Quinn's dad's word to go on.

"Tell me."

Rachel breathed. She didn't know where to begin.

"Did you see Puck? As you guys were coming up from the quad?" Finn thought back. He remembered grabbing hold of Kurt. Something told him that there had been some people watching, one of whom might have been Puck. He didn't remember his face in the crowd they'd passed on going through the cordon, or amongst the police milling about between their cars.

"I dunno." He said, lamely, blinking again.

"Ok. Well, he came up, about twenty minutes after the rest of us. And he looked really shaken, with these three police officers around him. And Lauren called him over, and his mom was there, but he was so distant, so distracted. And then the police came over and took them away to a van, to look at something, or talk about something. And then they were all just crying. But the police wouldn't tell us what was going on; they wouldn't let us near them. Puck was just holding his mum, and Lauren was holding him."

Finn felt suddenly selfish. Everyone here had been through the same fear as he had. Sam and Mike had probably saved Puck's life by attacking the man when they had, risking themselves in the process, and Puck had saved his life just before that. What had Finn done? Nothing. He'd just panicked and put everyone at risk. The whole time, all he'd been thinking about was himself. Himself and what everyone would think of him if anything bad happened. Cowering like a true coward, under that piano.

Rachel went on, playing with her hair distractedly. "And then they just…left. They just weren't there anymore. And none of us had any idea what was happening. The police came around and took our names and details and told us that the man had been taken away, and that we should try and write down all that we could remember. They passed out these forms, and came round with tape recorders." She looked him straight in the eyes. "I can't remember ever wanting to go home more."

There was a movement behind Rachel. Quinn had stood up and was walking over to them. Twisting round, Rachel looked almost relieved. Straightening up, she let Quinn take her place in front of Finn, but stayed, perching on an arm of the sofa.

Quinn put her hand gently on Finn's. "So…this morning, none of us had heard from him, or Lauren. I mean, we'd tried calling them, texting them; nothing. My dad knows people in the police department, something to do with the work his office does, and the whole journey home, and all the morning he was ranting about going down there to make sure 'everything was being taken care of'. I don't even know what he meant. But he was adamant. So I made him drop me here on his way. Mother wanted me to go to her house, but I said no."

"I was already here." Chipped in Rachel.

Quinn gave her the standard withering look of contempt. Finn couldn't have cared less about any of it at this moment.

"But about an hour after I got here, my phone went off. So I ran outside to take it. It was my dad. And he said that the police knew what the motive was for the whole…thing."

Finn looked at her quizzically. "But…but the guy was a complete stranger? It was all random?"

Quinn shook her golden head. "No. They don't think it was planned. But he definitely chose the school." She took a deep breath. The words were so difficult. Even the idea hurt her mind. "Finn; the…that man…it was Puck's dad."

Finn was silent. Shocked. The tiredness was knocked from him.

"What?"

"It's true. Puck realised it in the choir room. Do you remember him after it? How he was just sitting there?"

And Finn could see it. As he'd turned to run to find Kurt. Puck, straddling that creature, fists bloody, such hatred in his face. Maybe it could be true. The bottom of his heart fell through as he realised the pain Puck must be in.

"But, but why did the police take Puck in?" What could a son ever have done to make his father want to do something like that?

"They just wanted to talk to him. All that time he stayed behind in the choir room, he was telling them some sort of story as to why it might have happened. My dad doesn't really know, but there's something about a letter, and a custody battle, and all this bad blood between his parents."

"Jesus…"

Finn's mind could take no more. He rocked his head forwards into his hands and sat as Rachel and Quinn held his shoulders.

"So much…how can so much change on one day?"

Rachel stroked his shoulder. Even in the midst of her shock and fear, which still lingered, incongruous in the morning light, she held some hope that his words applied to her as well. Alongside her raw emotions she still felt the thrill of pleasure of the kiss he had given her before running from the choir room. He'd proved that at his deepest centre, she was the one he wanted. And now she was going to be there. Anything he needed, all the support in the world; that was what she was for. She stroked again. Quinn's hand, across from her, was stationary.


	26. Others

Dave Karofsky was sat up in his bed, watching the door as people walked past. He was waiting for his mom to come back with a bag of his own stuff from home. The doctor had said that he'd have to stay one more night, but that he would probably be allowed home tomorrow. Dave liked the idea of going home, but not what might follow after. Going back to school. He sighed. It was going to be a nightmare.

He wondered what it was like there today. Was McKinley even open? Maybe the police were still there; marking every inch of broken glass, every spot of blood in the locker room. There were sure to be wild rumours flying around. He wondered what the rough guess at how many were dead was likely to be...10? 20? He wondered if his name was currently amongst them. Most of the kids would probably find it exciting; some weird dangerous thrill that they'd almost been a part of. It made him feel slightly sick.

He looked to his right. On the hospital nightstand was a clipboard and form. He was supposed to fill it out. It had been there when he had woken up; his mom had said the police had left it. But Dave didn't want to look at it. He knew all the questions would be about remembering, and that was exactly what he didn't want to do right now. All it would achieve would be to bring back the pain. On cue his shoulder twinged. He looked down at it. It was bound so tight that below the joint he could feel nothing. Or maybe that was the result of the painkillers.

He wondered about Blaine and Kurt. To be honest, he'd been wondering about them all morning. Where were they? How were they? His mother hadn't been able to find out anything. In his own mind Dave was slightly annoyed that no one from school had been to see him; not even Kurt. Everyone must really not think that much of him.

A nurse came bustling into the room, carrying a tray of something. She looked up and smiled at him brightly. Dave recognised her as the blurry face he'd woken to, as she'd inspected his bandage that morning.

"Still up and awake are we? You really should try and get a bit more sleep you know."

Dave said nothing.

"Do you want something to do?" She eyed the form lying on the side, but said nothing, crossing to check his blood pressure and the dressing on his arm.

"No, thanks."

"Not a magazine or anything? Is your mom bringing you back some homework for this afternoon?" She laughed brightly at her own joke. Karofsky managed a weak smile.

"Ah, come on. Don't be down in the dumps." She smiled again. Dave had some idea that she must spend a lot of time around little kids. "Look. I brought something for you. It's a bit gruesome, but some people like it." She turned away and picked up the tray she'd been carrying.

Dave looked at it. It was like an unfinished mosaic; but plain. All tiny pieces of clear glass, and one dark, squashed bead, laid out on a square of green paper towel.

"The doctor thought you might see it before it goes over to the police. Some of the psychiatrists seem to think it helps with coming to terms with these kinds of things."

Karofsky's brain was slow. What did she mean? What was she showing him? Was it some kind of game or puzzle he was supposed to complete?

He didn't say anything, just stared at the glittering pieces in confusion.

Watching him, she pointed to the single odd piece; the large bead thing. "Look," she said, nudging it gently with her nail. It rolled a short distance, before ending up on its flat surface.

"What is it? What are they?"

Her face grew worried for a second, breaking the childlike playfulness, and she slowly moved her finger to point at his arm. "It's the glass and the pellet. What the surgeon took from your arm?" There was a pause. Dave was completely horrified. The nurse bit her lip anxiously.

"Sorry; I think I misjudged this one. I'll just take them away, ok? The police'll want them anyway..."

"No…no, wait a second." Dave looked at the fragments. There were so many of them. They'd been part of the school, part of the door, and then part of him. It was disgusting; but, the nurse was right, oddly fascinating. The bullet was annoyingly small for all the pain and harm it had caused. He stretched out his good hand, and then hesitated.

"Can I…?"

The nurse nodded. "They get covered in disinfectant in surgery, so it's only the ballistics that's of any use to the police." Dave didn't understand the word. "The shape. How it got squished."

He picked it up in his fingers and weighed it in his palm. It was no lighter or heavier than he'd expected. The ridges and curves of its surface were both smooth and sharp. He tossed it lightly into the air and caught it again, without pain. He put it back on the tray. It made a light tinkling noise as it dropped, rattling the pieces of glass.

"Thanks."

"No problem. If you need anything, just let me know." She began to walk back towards the door.

"Wait…wait…" Dave had to try something. The nurse turned around.

"Megan; my name's Megan." She pointed to a name badge, half hidden under her long brown hair.

"Miss…Megan. Could you do something for me?"

"Anything." She smiled her smile again.

"I want to see my friends. I want to know if they're ok."

"Alright, honey. Do you want a phone connection?"

"No…no. I think they're already here…"

* * *

><p>Will Schuester stood in the doorway to the choir room. Police tape barred his entrance. The floor, as far as he could see, was studded with paper markers. Bright splinters stood out against the dark black of the piano and the window ledge. There was a hole in the roof, and another in the wall. Chairs were overturned; but in the midst of all the chaos, Kurt's jacket and bag still sat, resting on his chair as if Will had only just missed him.<p>

Around him the school was quiet. The police had insisted on it stay closed for one more day. Will had already passed by a frenzied crew working in and around the locker room. Glass had been thrown half way down the corridor. Walking on towards the stairs, a route he must have taken a hundred times, Will had found a further corner taped off. The outline of a stain of something sat in the middle of the square. He'd read Blaine's name on one of the paper cards there and shuddered.

Other teachers had also been allowed into sections of the school, and Will had passed Figgins on his wanderings. The principal seemed to have grown older by years overnight; although Will suspected he himself looked just as bad. After spending the night awake on Emma's floor he hadn't even bothered to wash. Without his kids there was hardly anyone worth making an effort for.

Passing the gutted cafeteria he had come to the choir room. But he hadn't stayed long. Passing out down a fire escape he'd climbed back to the car park. Lines of students and snooping locals had gathered against the police lines, along with local news and radio stations. As Will passed through them he heard wilder and wilder rumours: _"Basically, I know one of the people who were sent in, and he said there was blood everywhere…it was this whole gang of psychos…"_

"_I heard he had a knife, and carved his name on all the walls…like the Shining…"_

"_I heard three people died, but it was too horrific…so the police can't say that it's true yet…"_

"_No way; who?"_

"_Um…like, a cheerleader, a jock and this new kid…and then the gun guy shot himself so the police wouldn't get him…but he shot like ten cops first…"_

"_That's so not true; if it was you'd know their names. But I know what really happened…"_

As each new voice spoke up the dynamic of the crowd shifted to surround them. Everyone was really getting his or her five minutes.

He reached his car and stepped inside. His next stop was the hospital; and whatever truth that would shed upon the questions in his own mind.


	27. Vistas

Kurt sat by the side of Blaine's bed, leaning inwards from an uncomfortable chair, so that his chin was tucked inside of Blaine's arm amongst the blankets. He was almost asleep. The lullaby stream of beeps which came constantly from the cluster of machines surrounding him seemed to slow his racing brain and soothe his aching body. He let his breathing fall into time with the gentle hiss of the ventilator, which snaked its way across Blaine's high cheek bone to his nose. Quickly the other noises of the intensive care ward faded away. The warmth of Blaine's arm soaked into Kurt's skin through the soft bedclothes. He drifted off into a mercifully dreamless sleep.

* * *

><p>Twenty minutes later Burt Hummel stood beside the duty nurse, watching his son's gentle breathing, taking in the way his hair splayed untidily across his face. For Burt it brought back memories of those first fraught years after his wife's death, when he would wake to find that Kurt had climbed into bed beside him, and the early hours he would spend just watching him sleep, slumped on top of the quilt. Once again he saw in his son so much of his wife.<p>

But the sight also ignited horror within him. The horror of what Kurt had gone through in these last few months. It didn't take much, even for Burt's limited imagination, to place himself in that bed, and to leave Kurt in the same position. He had no idea where Kurt got his strength from; to keep going against all adversity, to care for his father in so many ways, to love Blaine so much.

He looked down at his watch. It was ten past six. He knew his pick-up was clocking up a hell of a charge on the parking meter outside; but Burt didn't care. There was no way he could bring himself to wake Kurt when he looked so peaceful. He threw a sideways glance at the motherly matron, who was standing at his shoulder. She looked back steadily and evenly, but then gave in.

"Alright…but if the doctor, or his mother, or anyone else comes then I know nothing about this…and it's the last time, Mr Hummel. The last time."

Burt took his hat off to her, literally, stowing the folded, greasy cap in his pocket as she turned and bustled away, returning with a carton of antiseptic hand gel. Burt dutifully rinsed his blackened hands and crept forwards to sit beside his son.

* * *

><p>Dave was packing his bag, slowly and clumsily. Lucky, he thought to himself, that there was only one pair of pyjamas and a wash bag to sort out. If he'd been forced to stay any longer then this whole process would have just dissolved into catastrophe. He gave up trying to fold the unnecessary dressing gown his mother had insisted on bringing, and instead just tossed it one handed into the open holdall.<p>

Finn stood just inside the door, watching. He knew better than to offer to help. The last few days had truly taught him the meaning of personal space and privacy.

"What time did you say your mom was coming?" He glanced up at the bright clock on the dark TV. It showed ten past six.

"Just after she's finished at work." Karofsky too looked up at the clock. "So any time now really." He threw in a last pair of socks and set to trying to fasten the zip. But after two tries he sighed and looked towards Finn. "Lend a hand?"

Finn walked forwards and silently held the bag closed as Dave drew the zip towards himself with his good hand. The other, indeed most of his right arm, was invisible below dressing after white dressing, all strapped against his body in a navy Velcro sling.

"What about you? What are you still doing here?" Dave knew that despite his civility and gratitude, Finn had not stayed in the hospital just to see him off home.

Finn saw that his motive had been found and glanced down at the floor with slight shame. "Um…well Burt's come to get Kurt, but they'll probably be a little while, so I thought I'd just come to see that you were ok."

"Thanks, man. You didn't have to."

"No, no. I wanted to." There was an awkward moment. Finn sought for a way to move the subject on. "Uh…Did all the others come by earlier? They said they were going to."

"Yeah, yeah. That was really nice of them; especially as they came round yesterday as well. Oh, and Brittany, Santana and Artie turned up at lunch too. Brittany's mom finally brought them over."

"Oh, that's cool. I didn't see them." In truth, Finn had hardly seen anyone since waking up in that room the previous morning. Most of the time he'd been about two feet behind Kurt, following him on his mom's instructions; literally watching his back. "Did they tell you everything? About Blaine, and Puck, and all that?"

"Yeah, yeah. Fuck. I can't believe any of this has happened. Can you?" Finn shook his head. "What happened to Sam? I didn't like to ask."

"The guy…Puck's dad…his arm got rammed by the gun; it's fractured, but not broken."

"Oh right." There was another pause. The conversation felt slightly forced and fake between them; both were remembering more of their usual shouting and fist fights.

"To be honest," Dave sat down against the made bed as he spoke, "I didn't think any of you guys would come. I mean, I've never been anything but a complete dick to you." The reality and frankness of his words threw Finn; what could he say? But then he remembered something.

"No; no. That's not true. Kurt said something…" Dave blushed slightly in spite of himself, his mind flying over what Kurt could have told Finn. He turned his face away from the other boy. "Or, no, no. You said something. When we were in the locker room. When the police came in. You told them to leave Kurt alone…" Finn thought over the scene properly for the first time. "And Kurt…he was mumbling something about you 'bringing Blaine back'?"

Dave's face reddened even more. But relief flowed inside him that his secret was still safe. He spoke, trying to keep his voice low and husky. "Yeah…but it was just the situation, y'know? You do what you can."

"Well, whatever you did, it wasn't being a dick. Dicks don't take a bullet in the shoulder and go on to save someone else's life." Finn was proud of the words as they came to him, and Karofsky latched on to them, feeling a mysterious happiness at the praise.

"Well…you didn't do a bad job yourself." Both boys smiled bashfully into the floor, laced with their individual regrets, as Dave's mom gave a light tap on the door and entered.

"Oh…right," said Finn, backing towards the door with a nod to Mrs Karofsky, "well…I better go and chase up Burt and Kurt…"

"Yeah," said David, glancing up with a quick wave of his left hand. "Well, I guess I'll see you at school in a few days or something? But keep me updated on what's going on here, ok? And…and…" He paused. His mom had picked up the holdall and another bag of prescriptions and pills and disappeared silently through the door again, past Finn. "Listen…just tell Kurt that if he wants to talk, then I'm here for him, ok? I know it sounds stupid and weird; but we got through this together and…I wanna help him…"

Finn watched the other boy; he'd changed so much in the space of a few days that the bully who'd made so many enemies was hardly recognisable in him. "Yeah, of course I'll tell him."


	28. Sins

"…so the judging committee allowed the competition to be put back by four weeks. They said it was special consideration, or something, and that all the other choirs had agreed to it. I think Mr Schue's managed to convince the airline to extend our tickets as well. So that means you have absolutely no excuse not to be there…"

It was Saturday. Kurt sat once more in his chair by Blaine's bedside. Today they were in a new room; a smart, single space off the quiet corridor of the coma ward. Blaine had been moved yesterday, during the day, and it had taken Kurt a frantic hour to find him this morning. But now he was back in his usual position; one hand resting on Blaine's arm.

A small pile of assignments and catch up work sat in front of him on a low moveable table. His other hand held his pen, and his mind was blankly moving through the simple exercises whilst he chatted. Most of the teachers had been kind and understanding. All of them had eyed him warily as he'd reappeared in their classrooms on Friday morning, along with Finn, as if he was somehow in danger of some sudden fit of grief. But Kurt had been comfortably numb; half from the sleeping pills he'd been prescribed and half from simply not caring. His mind and his heart were still in this hospital, and would stay there for however long.

It was almost exactly how he'd felt when his father was in there.

Finn had walked everywhere with him yesterday, usually with one or two other members of the Glee Club. Mr Schue seemed to appear at the end of every corridor at the end of every period, to walk past Kurt with a look of forced surprise and a confident smile. A few times he even glimpsed Karofsky in the distance, watching him, betrayed by the white flash of his bandages under the dark sling. Kurt didn't have the heart or question or fight their concern. But in truth he was ok. Even on walking past the duck-taped door of the locker room, as Finn stiffened beside him and sped up, Kurt paused to look the scene over. He wanted to go inside, to see that everything was back to how it should be. Because that was all he wanted; for everything to go back to exactly how it should be.

And so to some extent, school was already that way, filled with students and happy noise. Kurt thought he might have felt different if returned to that silent, dark corridor. But he was never, ever going to let that happen to himself.

In fact, apart from the visible scars on Sam and Dave, and Puck's still conspicuous absence, which Burt had awkwardly explained on that first tearful morning, well, there was only one thing missing. Kurt looked up at Blaine's expressionless face and smiled sadly. Reaching into his pocket, he drew out his iPod and placed it on the bed beside Blaine's chest. Tomorrow he would have to remember his speakers. Turning it on, he began to hum along to a new playlist; 'Blaine's Favourites'. Then, with a thought, he bent forward, seriously.

"Blaine Warbler; you have two hours to gather yourself together, stop messing around and come back to me. Or I will resort to force. It'll be Cliff Richard, _'Who Let The Dogs Out?'_ and _'Mambo No. 5'_ continuously…I'm serious…and I brought headphones, so it'll just be you suffering. So your choice. Wake up, and I won't have to do this."

Kurt pulled back. The serene face didn't change. Something told him Blaine knew he could never be that cruel. Kurt sighed, turning the volume down so that all the sounds of Blaine's equipment could be heard, thankful that the hiss of the ventilator was no longer part of that background noise as Blaine had been breathing independently, with only one small oxygen tube, since yesterday morning.

"Alright. But I've got all weekend, mister. I'm not going anywhere and I'm gonna come up with something." His tone changed as the words brought his head round to the thoughts that had really been occupying his mind. His throat tightened and Kurt forced his eyes shut. He was not going to cry. "I'm never going anywhere Blaine. Even if I'm here in forty years time, singing you show tunes and telling you stories of the few weeks we had together. I'm not going to New York if you're still here. I wouldn't want to. Nothing's worth doing if I can't do it with you…"

Kurt lapsed into silence as the music continued. Running out of expressible thoughts he turned back to his calculus.

"Oh." He said, suddenly remembering something, trying to lift his voice cheerfully. "Blaine; exciting news. The Dalton guys are coming to see you tomorrow. Your mom said that would be ok, what with your dad getting back to the airport in the afternoon and her having to go pick him up, and they all really want to see you; Wes, David, all of them. The whole school have sent you this huge card," He looked to where it sat, taking up almost half of the sideboard, "and so many people have signed it, with all these amazing messages. They really love you, you know?"

The song that was playing finished, and after a moment of silence it started up again with _'Part of Your World'_. Blaine's Disney obsession was still something of an enigma to Kurt. He sniffed, his head filling with the gorgeous scent of the bouquets which were arranged around the room, so bright and happy, with tiny little teddy bears and glittering ribbons. That morning he'd seen a nurse struggling down the corridor with three in her arms, muttering something about too much kindness.

"Everyone loves you, Blaine."

* * *

><p>That afternoon Kurt paused on returning from the restroom. The door to Blaine's room was half open, when he'd purposefully closed it on leaving. He had his reasons; more embarrassing but adorable Disney was playing. His first thought was that it was a nurse, come to do the daily stats and response check, but something itched at the back of his mind. He edged closer, and began to hear a voice, decidedly male and trembling with grief. The music was no longer playing.<p>

"…you have to believe how sorry I am…I know we don't really know each other that well, but I dunno what I'd do if you didn't make it, Blaine…You have to. Don't worry, I'm gonna look after Kurt, and your mom, and do anything I possibly can do to help you. Cause I owe you, man, big time…" The voice dissolved into a silence, interspersed with deep sobs. Kurt thought he recognised the voice, but didn't dare step forwards to look around the door. Instead he stayed leaning against the wall. He heard the sound of his chair scraping across the floor as it was drawn away from the bed.

There was a whisper; as low and sincere as a prayer. "I am going to do everything; everything I can to make sure that…that man never gets near _anyone_ ever again…I promise."

Curiosity got the better of Kurt as the silence began again. Slowly, with the palm of his hand, he pushed the door open. There, kneeling at Blaine's side, holding his hand just as Kurt had been, was Puck. Tears streaked his face and his eyes were exhausted, rimmed with sore redness. As the door glided open and he caught sight of Kurt, framed in the doorway, he leapt to his feet. His eyes were startled and frightened, like a child caught at something truly wicked.

"Oh, Kurt…I…I was just going…" He put his head down and rushed around the bed, but paused when Kurt didn't move from his path.

"Puck?" Kurt couldn't believe the boy who stood in front of him was the same as that who had thrown him time and again into dumpsters.

Puck wove nervously on the spot, not knowing where to look. "I'm sorry, Kurt…I didn't mean to get in your way…I just, just wanted to apologise to Blaine…and I've done that, so…"

"Puck…" Kurt stood still as the hunched figure moved forwards again. "Puck, what are you talking about?"

Noah met the other boy's eyes for a second, but then quickly looked away once more. He felt keenly the presence of Blaine behind him, lying on that bed.

"You…you must hate me…all this," he flung an arm out, almost violently, "it's all my fault."

Kurt could not believe his ears. Reaching out to the side, he swung the door closed behind himself.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Kurt walked forward to the side of the bed. Puck backed away from him, coming to stand by the vacant chair, looking once more at Blaine and the pure white bandage wrapped around his head.

"My dad…me…"

Kurt picked up Blaine's hand, but kept his eyes on Noah. The rambling, terrified figure scared him slightly. He tried to fill his voice with the true feelings of his head.

"Puck…absolutely none of this is your fault."

The bigger boy sniffed, then snorted. "Yeah…yeah, it is. I got him angry, I made him want to come after me, and then…"

Kurt interrupted. "Do you consider him your father? Does he mean anything to you?"

"No…not for years now…"

"Did you hold his hand?"

Noah looked back, confused. "What?"

"Did you help him do anything? Did you hand him something to hit Blaine or shoot Dave with?"

"No…no, of course not…"

"Then how is any of this your fault?"

Puck was silent, but Kurt saw he hadn't convinced him of anything.

"Look, Puck, come on. I don't blame you; I blame that man. The one whose mind was too weak to deal with loosing the best thing he ever had. And Blaine, or Karofsky, or Sam; none of them blame you…"

There was silence again. Puck's eyes flicked as he considered the words.

"But…but the cops. They…I could see it in their eyes…they knew he'd done it because of me; because of what I said and what I did…"

Kurt sighed. He was nowhere near ready for a conversation like this.

"Noah…Noah, look at me, and look at Blaine." He paused as Puck obeyed. "Do you know that I went back to school yesterday? Finn and I. Our first day back; and everyone was still talking about that night. Everyone had found out what happened, from every angle. They knew what Karofsky had done, what Mike and Sam had done, what had happened in the choir room. And everyone knew that he was your dad. And they were all shocked."

Puck didn't move. His hands were wrung together, his eyes almost closed.

"But you know what they were all really talking about? How you jumped on your own father's back and punched the hell out of him. How you stood up to him, even with a gun in your face." Puck unconsciously rubbed the circular bruise on his forehead. "How you saved Finn's life."

"They…they were saying that?" He opened his eyes.

Kurt nodded. "You were the hero. Nothing less than that."

Kurt watched as the light in Puck's eyes changed, growing less wild, brightening. He leaned over and took the silenced iPod from the bed, gesturing to the empty chair.

"Sit down; talk to Blaine properly. He doesn't know you very well, but he'd like to."

Puck sat cautiously. Kurt edged onto the bed and perched there. He watched as Noah began to explain himself, falteringly at first, but then growing in self-belief. Somehow, Kurt felt as if a weight had lifted off his own shoulders at the same time.


	29. Hearts

Puck was back at school by the following Wednesday. Kurt watched as people at first avoided him, wary, as they had been for him, of such strong emotions within a single person. But gradually he saw them approach him, saw them offer themselves as friends and pat him on the back.

Kurt's eyes viewed the school differently now; for some reason or other he was now inextricably linked to this place. It was as if some omniscient being had suddenly turned up the contrast ratio; now whites were whiter and blacks, blacker. His friends meant more to him at this moment than at any other point in his life, so did his family. He supposed it could be some psychological hang up from the whole experience; post-traumatic _something_, even. Whatever it was, it felt real and lasting. Kurt was stronger.

With Puck back, the Glee club began to come back together. Together again, in the choir room, there was an odd sense of stagnation. They had done all their preparation with the previous weekend in mind as their crowning glory; yet they would have to wait three more weeks now. Kurt, especially, was unnerved by the fresh start, despite all his longing for normality. Because, stepping through those doors for the first time in a week, seeing the fresh plaster on the walls and the stand-in upright piano, he realised that this room represented the entire experience of that night for his friends. Whereas his memories were tied to the corridors and the locker room, theirs were linked to this place that had been something of a haven for them from the rest of the school. He saw how that might have been shattered, and it scared him. He looked around at his friends as they sat in their usual chairs. All were silent, looking around, not meeting anyone's eyes. Rachel sat next to Finn, Quinn had retired to the other end of a row, but her stance held no anger. Kurt saw that something unspoken had happened between them. Puck had looked towards the drum kit and speakers for a long moment, and then had turned to Lauren and taken her hand.

Mr Schuester sat across from them, on his usual stool. He was watching them as Kurt had been, considering the situation. This was something not covered by his teacher training. Finally he rose, sighing, and pressing his hands together.

"Ok." He let the sound of the word dissipate as his eyes travelled over every face. "This is what we are going to do..."

* * *

><p>Finn walked hesitantly into the lunch hall, now patched and cleared of debris. He'd told Kurt he'd wait for him to go to lunch, but had received a text at the last minute saying to go on in without him; that Kurt was sorting something out and would go it later with Brit and Santana. Finn didn't know how Kurt could be so positive now, so energised and ready to help, so willing to think of others. Even the silly abandonment of Kurt's text made slight panic rise inside Finn. The inspiration and hope of Mr Schue's rallying talk was beginning to wear off.<p>

But he'd managed to press himself on through the swinging, swishing doors, and now stood, surveying the messy, busy room. Trying to blend in, he ducked to the side and picked up a tray, pilling random bits of food onto it and walking to the register. He could simply walk through and dump it in the trash if he needed, and then hide out in the library and pretend he was doing some work until the bell went. Yeah; that sounded ok.

So he paid and moved off. Walking past a table of sophomore girls, he thought he heard their talk pause, and then resume in a whisper. He felt eyes latching onto his back. He wanted to turn around and face them, ask them what their problem was, what rumour they'd heard. The girls burst into giggles as one behind him and continued their conversation. Finn heard something about the Jonas Brothers. Perhaps he'd been wrong.

Suddenly his way was blocked by a familiar pastel sweater.

"Finn?"

He looked up. Rachel.

"Hi." His voice was tiny; where had all his energy and confidence gone?

"Where are you going?" She looked behind herself at the path he had been taking. It led straight to the trash cans and the back door. "We were calling to you. Didn't you hear us?"

Finn followed her eyes. He saw Mercedes, Artie, Puck, Lauren, Mike and Tina. Sam was just returning from the drinks machine. They were all looking over at him, smiling. Even Puck, who'd looked beyond help at the beginning of the day.

"Oh, right. Sorry." Finn didn't know what to do. His plans were changing again. But Rachel took hold of his arm and led him towards the group. They sat down at the end of the table and a normal flow of conversation started up again around them.

Finn listened but didn't know when to come in. He kept wondering what Kurt was doing. He picked at his food, turning it over and over. Rachel kept looking at him.

"Finn?"

"Hmmm?" He'd zoned out again. He glanced up. Only Rachel was looking at him; the others were involved in some secret game to flick rice into Mike's water without him noticing.

"Are you ok?"

"Yeah, yeah…Sorry; just a bit tired. That's all."

She gave him a look that told him he wasn't fooling anyone. Great; his emotions readable even to the girl who'd written 'My Headband'. She slid her hand across the table and took hold of his. Mercedes glanced at them for a second, but then took a soggy slice of carrot to the side of her face. She turned back, fork raised to face the assailant.

"Finn…It's ok to think about yourself, you know?"

"What?" What was she talking about? He'd been thinking about nothing but himself; that was one of the biggest weights on his mind, how selfish he'd been.

"Everyone can see how much this is worrying you, but you don't have to take everything on your own shoulders. You don't have to keep on being the hero."

"What are you talking about?" Finn hated how close this was getting to the raw truth of his emotions. He stared down into his food again and tried to pull his hand away, but Rachel dropped her fork and closed her other hand around his.

"No, Finn. You need to talk about this…"

"What if I don't want to talk, huh?" His voice was quiet, but angry.

"I don't care. I'm making you." Finn became horribly aware that the rest of the table was watching them now. "You did so much for Kurt, so much for David, and for all of us. But you need to stop and look after yourself. If you don't, then you're just wasting the time you're putting in to helping everyone else."

Finn swallowed, even though his mouth was empty.

"How, Rachel? How can I do that? When Kurt needs me, and Burt needs me, and my mom needs me, and this club needs me?" He felt himself growing genuinely angry now. It worked its way to the surface through his numbness.

Rachel glanced at her friends, then lowered her voice too, letting her temper seep into it.

"Yes, yes we all need you. But we need the real you; not this…not this shell. Alright? We need the Finn we saw on that night, and in the days after; before he forgot that he was just a human going through the same things as us all. And now what are you doing? Not eating, not talking unless it's about someone else, having to physically force yourself through the door to the choir room?" Finn winced at her words as they reached the heart of his pain. "Don't think we don't notice, Finn. Don't think you can hide it from people who care about you. Because you know what? I need you, too. The real you. The you I love."

Finn stopped playing with his food and kicking at his chair. He looked up, into Rachel's honest eyes. And saw all his mistakes. He put his head in his hands, still holding hers so that her fingers ran up into his hair.

"Shit…I…I'm so sorry, Rachel."

He felt hands on his back. He lifted his head. Mercedes, Artie, Puck…all of them. They'd all come behind him and laid their hands on his shoulders.

"We got'ya, man." Said Puck. "Just like you had us."

"And we'll all still be here at the end." Added Rachel, stroking his hair back from his face. "I don't mind waiting."


	30. Dream

Blaine was dreaming again. Always the selfsame dream, but in different contexts. Today he was underwater, as if being baptised. Inches away from the surface, he could see the light of the sun as it broke upon the ripples and waves and scattered away. He could even feel its warmth on his face.

But he was tired of the dream. Tired of the way it toyed with him, battering his emotions. Why could he not wake up? What had happened? In all his hours of darkness and voices, Blaine had thought over every possibility, from death and limbo to drugs. All scared him. All hurt. Physically. Any real sustained period of thinking; of _not_ dreaming, hurt inside him in ways that scared him just as deeply. And when the pain became too much, the dream would always come.

From that first time, when he had hurtled along the Dalton corridors with Kurt, he must have had twenty such dreams. In forests, in dark nothingness, in familiar places, everywhere his mind could conjure. And now he was underwater, looking up into bright blueness. He knew that if he twisted, he would see nothing behind him, nothing at all, nothingness. He knew that even if he didn't look something would reveal the fact to him.

In a strange déjà vu, Blaine lifted his hand slightly, ready for that which would grasp it. And it came, seizing him by the wrist and attempting to drag him upwards, out of the water. But it fought in vain. Blaine shut his dream-eyes as a painful, suction sensation began, sealing him under.

And then suddenly it was not just one hand gripping Blaine's. The water exploded above him as a second hand dove down and seized his floating one from his side. And it too began to pull. And for the first time Blaine felt an equal battle going on for his own body. With the second hand, he felt the pull of the water lessening, felt his heavy head begin to float free. Blaine's entire body trembled. His mind awoke within itself, and he too began to fight, fighting to flail his empty legs, to pump with his leaden arms, to push himself free. His arm twitched, then shook, then flew, lashing out against the dragging current, throwing off the first hand which had held him. And Blaine found that he could swim for himself, guided by that second hand. And with one, two, three strokes, he pressed for the surface.

* * *

><p>Saturday had come round again; rolled round again like an inevitable tide. Kurt walked the long, familiar corridors and stairways of the hospital until he finally came to the right sign: Coma Ward. Pushing the door open with one hand, he looked behind himself, to where Dave Karofsky stood, examining the sign.<p>

"Go on," Kurt said, ushering him forwards, and stepping through he let the door swing closed behind them.

The hallway was as quiet as ever. One or two nurses came and went across the pallid cream background, but apart from that they were virtually alone. Glancing left and right as they passed doorways, Dave glimpsed families and solitary figures, gathered around unmoving forms. He couldn't shift the impression that, despite Kurt's mood and motive in suggesting he come here, this was not a place of hope.

They reached a room at the end of the hall. Kurt peered around the ajar door and then beckoned him forwards.

"It's ok; Blaine's parents aren't here. Come on in."

They entered the bright, blank room. Karofsky hung back, unable to connect the room and the boy lying on the bed with the events of almost two weeks ago. But Kurt moved forwards, speaking undauntedly to the silent figure, adjusting the bedclothes, even bending to kiss him on the cheek in greeting. Dave was unnerved. It was unnatural and one sided. Unrequited. But Kurt turned and waved him forwards, and he had to follow.

He approached the bed slowly, and followed Kurt's pointing finger to a vacant chair on the far side, near a table scattered with empty tissue boxes and food wrappers. Clearly someone was not finding this as easy as Kurt was. He sat. Kurt shuffled onto the side of the bed, taking Blaine's hand in his lap. He held and considered it for a few seconds. David saw a dark grey pulse monitor clipped over the index finger. Then Kurt looked up and smiled.

"Well; go on. You can talk to him if you want."

Dave had been expecting this, but he had no idea how to do it. "Wha…what do I say?"

"Anything you want. I usually end up telling stupid gossip about people Blaine doesn't even know. But it helps, you know?"

"Ok…alright." He really didn't know. With his good arm he reached down and dragged the chair closer to the bed. His head was level with Blaine's, but all that he could look at was the translucent line of the oxygen tube, lacing across to his nose, and the whiteness of the bandage against his hair. "Um…" Words failed him. He'd never felt so stupid.

There was an awkward pause. Kurt just looked down at the blankets, trying to give it time. But then he smiled.

"I've got an idea." His voice was incongruously mischievous; he gave a little chuckle, and then looked at Blaine's face. Dave blinked up at him. "Why don't you come out? Finally say it; out in the open." Dave blinked again. Was the kid mad with grief or something?

"What?"

"No, listen. It's a perfect chance. You've never said it, have you? Never just said to someone: 'I'm gay,' apart from maybe the mirror? Well, try it. Blaine's not going to judge you, not going to hate you or hit you, or wherever else your fear is. So try it? It can't do any harm."

Dave felt his defences rise within himself.

"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard." He glanced at the door, making sure there was no-one who could overhear them. Kurt looked at him, his eyes disappointed.

"Fine." One day, he thought. One day, I'll hear you say it. "But you're going to have to learn how to be proud of yourself one day."

"Alright…" Muttered Dave, feeling ashamed now. "But, just…not today, ok? Today's not about me; it's about him." He pointed to Blaine. Kurt gave him a look that said _'Really?' _

Karofsky, trying to placate the situation, copied Kurt and picked up Blaine's pale hand, placing it inside his own huge, clumsy palm. Kurt smiled again, and after a moment slid from the edge of the bed.

"Ok; well at the risk of interrupting this avalanche of talk…I'm going to get a coffee. Do you want a drink?"

Karofsky shook his head; half in reply and half in desperation. He didn't want Kurt to leave; then he'd be alone with…

But Kurt had already swept from the room, closing the door with a click. And he fully intended on taking his time, as Blaine worked his incredible magic, just as he had done with Puck.

* * *

><p>Abandoned in the room, Dave looked around in slight panic, keeping an instinctive hold of Blaine's hand. There were hundreds of bright cards and flowers, some beginning to wilt and sprinkle their petals on the blank floor. He looked at a card poking from one of the arrangements nearest to him. <em>"You're the light in our family. Aunt Patty and Uncle Joe, xxx"<em>. Under the message came the crayon names of three or four cousins, scrawled next to a rough doodle of a building with a huge red cross on its roof, and a stick man with a bandaged leg. Behind the huge red and blue blooms was another card, filled with messages from boys at Dalton.

"How do you get so many people to love you, man?" Dave asked the silent room with a sigh. "How is it so easy being you? All the crap that Kurt gets, even, but for you, you just get over it. With everyone on your side." A crazy, wild thought entered his head; that maybe if he could sing he'd be ok with coming out. Bloody hell; two minutes alone in here and he was already auditioning for _Fame_.

Dave sighed again and turned back towards the bed. "I can't be like you two, you know? That's not me…even before I turned into a dick, that wasn't me. I just wanna…just wanna be the normal me, you know? And that's not some bull about being accepted, or craving a man, or anything. I'm fine with being single; I want to be single, but _me_ single. Why does it have to be _gay_ single?" He pulled on the hand in his in slight desperation. "And another thing. How will coming out make all this any better? I know what I am. You two are the only gay guys I know, and you know I'm…whatever. And that lesbo Lopez chick knows. So what does it matter if everyone else doesn't? They're only gonna give me crap for it. Once I get out of school, then fine. I can find someone for me or something…but isn't it easier just to be liked? For the moment?"

He paused naturally for an answer to his rhetorical question. Of course there was none.

Kurt had his ear pressed to the other side of the door, steaming plastic coffee cup in hand. How did Blaine manage to get everyone to open up so well? How did that chair become a confessional? Feeling bad for intruding he walked to one side and slid down against the wall until he came to a rest on the floor. He'd give it ten minutes.

Karofsky sighed and played with the nail of one of Blaine's fingers. It was cold and smooth to the touch. Now, or never. He cleared his throat.

"I'm gay. I'm gay, Blaine. David Karofsky is gay. Gay. Gay. Gay." He stiffened. The words seemed to echo and crescendo. He turned to the floor and mumbled; "Are you happy now?"

* * *

><p>A swell.<p>

Blaine broke the surface.

* * *

><p>Something brushed Dave's palm. He looked up. Blaine's hand still sat in his, unmoving. He looked back at the floor. Kurt was wrong. The words had done nothing; only given him one more memory to try and forget.<p>

His hand tingled again. What the hell was it? He lifted the pair of their hands off the bed, looking for wires or tubes. Nothing. He touched the rubber caster of the chair, trying to get rid of any static. But it came again. He dropped their hands back onto the cover. Blaine's shuddered with the impact. So did his eyelashes. Wait.

Karofsky stopped breathing. His hand went loose around Blaine's.

There.

The fingers definitely trembled.

Dave was suddenly on his feet, seizing the hand once more.

"Blaine? Blaine?" His voice shook. The eyelids under the bright strip of white crinkled, but didn't open.

"Hey man, come on. Just open your eyes." He reached over the bed and took up Blaine's other hand, pressing them together in his one good palm.

He felt a tiny quivering pinch, which grew gradually stronger.

"That's it. That's it." Blaine's eyelids trembled again, opening to tiny slits. His lips edged apart. Karofsky was silent as he watched Blaine's fight for consciousness. Once more the eyelids rose, but this time they held, half revealing exhausted eyes.

"Ww…w…" The sound was nothing more than a whisper; Blaine's throat croaked and cracked. "Wha…Kurt?…"

"Wha…wha?" Repeated Dave, his voice hushed and reverential, feeling like an idiot, trying to understand. "Wha…water? You want water?"

Blaine's weak head rose from the pillow a centimetre and then dropped back down. His hands pressed Dave's again.

"Alright…alright…"Panicked Karofsky, looking around frantically. Water. Water. A half empty plastic bottle stood on the table amongst the litter; he grabbed it and, unscrewing the cap, tipped it gently onto Blaine's offered lips. He took two sips, eyes closing, then jerking his hand and coming up with a violent cough. Karofsky jumped backwards, spilling water down his hand.

"I'm…I'm sorry," he gasped, as Blaine spluttered. "I'll…" He leapt towards the door. "I'll go get help; I'll get a nurse. I'll get…"

But Blaine's abandoned hand lifted and waved to him, as one last cough wracked his body. The weak voice only just travelled from the bed. "No…no…wait." Blaine scrunched his eyes in pain. "Wait…"

Dave moved half a step back towards the boy. His heart was pounding in his chest and his breathing was all over the place. But then those two piercing russet eyes locked on his, and the smallest smile crept onto the pale, damp lips. His hand flexed in offering, and Karofsky could do nothing but take it in his.

"Wwhere…Kurt…you said it…"

"What?"

Blaine closed and opened his eyes with effort. His throat rasped and he coughed once more.

"You did it..."

"Wha…Blaine, I really need to go get someone…" The kid was speaking nonsense. David's mind rushed to Kurt, out in the hospital somewhere, unaware. He turned to look at the door once more, then at the bed. Blaine's fingers were digging into his palm now. Surely there must be a call button or something? He shouted at the door. "Kurt!"

Blaine's eyes and grip softened with the word, but he held on.

"Kurt! Nurse! Help!"

"No…Karof…I just…to say…thank you." Dave heard muffled sounds in the corridor; a sliding of feet. "For coming out. I heard…" His free hand gestured towards his ears.

"You…you heard that?"

"Yeah…" Blaine's eyes closed once more. He was silent.

David's mouth hung open.

The door behind him was flung open. Kurt burst into the room, his face pale.

"Wha…wha…what?" He skidded on the floor, staring at Blaine's apparently unchanged figure. He struggled to still his pounding heart, to hear the stream of bleeps from the machines. What was Dave playing at, standing there with those wide eyes? What had happened?

"He…Blaine's…waking…" Such words, but they sounded hollow and lifeless. So shocked.

Kurt's heart stopped altogether. "What?" He threw himself to the bed, pushing Dave aside, who stumbled and sank against the wall. Kurt seized Blaine's hand, bending over him, tears flooding his eyes.

"Blaine…Blaine, come on, look at me…please, oh God, please…" His breath pounded into his words. He laid a hand on that perfect cheek.

And the eyelashes flickered. And opened. And the mouth shuddered into a smile.

"Hello, beautiful…"

Kurt was still for a moment, his mind overwhelmed. But then his face split. He wept and laughed, tears coursing down his face.

"Oh, oh…" Was all he could manage, before he collapsed onto Blaine's chest. Blaine weakly raised his arms around his boyfriend. "I…I love you so much. Never…never do that to me again…never leave…"

* * *

><p>Karofsky had staggered upright, and lurched to the open door. A startled nurse met him, having followed the shouts, and ran past him into the room. Dave looked around the empty corridor and stumbled to a vacant chair. His chest catapulted up and down. He put his head in his hand, curling down to his knees. And, inside himself, he felt his soul, or whatever this sensation was, jumping and rejoicing; released at last.<p> 


	31. Image

Kurt stole a look around the door to the new room, on the new ward, and then turned back to Mercedes, Rachel and Finn.

"We should probably wait a second," he whispered. "His dad's still in there, and he's flying back out to work today." He fingered the package in his hands nervously; two thrift store DVDs, one _The Wizard of Oz_, and the other _West Side Story_. They were the latest in a stack of presents for Blaine. It was Wednesday, four days since Blaine had woken up. Kurt had spent Saturday night in the family room of the hospital, much like that first night those two weeks ago, and then all Sunday at Blaine's bedside, only leaving when pressed away by the doctor so that Blaine could be taken for more scans, or when his mother's frosty eyes had stopped him in his tracks at the door. Kurt knew the woman still hadn't forgiven him for his one shake of the head in that corridor, for denying her the comfort of knowing her son had thought of her in his darkest hour. Kurt knew he shouldn't blame her; but on the other hand, he couldn't find it within himself to forgive her.

Thankfully the scans had been clear; Blaine still needed drips and drugs and whatever else, but, thank God, he was awake. Kurt could deal with whatever else. He closed his eyes and pressed his hand to his face. The happiness of it continually threatened to overwhelm him. Mercedes put her hand on his shoulder, thinking he was about to burst into the same tears he had when explaining Blaine's breakthrough to her down the phone. It had taken the best part of thirty minutes for her to work him through what _'Merc…Bl…he…o…ju…ka…ta…ya…" _had meant. If he hadn't been alternating between sobs and hysterical laughter she would have thought the worst.

Kurt simply turned and hugged her. Rachel smiled and slid her arm round Finn, leaning on his shoulder to balance the weight of the huge bouquet in her other arm. He smiled too and stroked her hair.

The door before the group opened, with a man backing through it.

"Goodbye, son. I love you…I'll call tomorrow, alright? Look after your mother for me…"

He closed the door, and turning, almost crashed into the group of teenagers.

"Oh, oh, I'm sorry." He hastily wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve and moved to go around them, before he spotted Kurt. He was dressed in a smart business suit and a large grey plastic suitcase rolled behind him. "Oh, Kurt." He held out his hand. Kurt took it and shook it.

"Hello."

This was only his second meeting with Mr Anderson. He already liked him more than his wife.

"How are you? It's good of you to come again. I…I know it must be difficult after school, and what with Nationals coming up and all that." Mr Anderson glanced at the other children. He'd remembered their previous conversation. Kurt smiled.

"Not at all. Um…Mr Anderson; this is Mercedes, Rachel and Finn."

He shook each of their hands in turn. His eyes were dark and heavy, but brighter, oh so much brighter, than when Kurt had first met him.

"We're so glad Blaine's back, Mr Anderson." Said Rachel. "All of us." Finn nodded behind her.

"Please, please call me Stuart." She nodded. He sighed, running his hand through his hair. "I have to thank all of you so much for what you did for my son." He looked only at Kurt. "And what you're still doing. It makes this so much easier to know he has so many people who care about him."

Kurt smiled gently. Stuart Anderson looked around at his suitcase, and then down at his watch. "Well, sorry, but I have to go. Plane to catch. But it was lovely to meet you all; and good luck." With a final squeeze of Kurt's hand and a wave, he set off down the corridor.

"Come on," said Kurt, pulling Mercedes along by the hand, glancing back at Blaine's retreating dad. He would have liked to have had a proper conversation with him. He peered around the door once more. Blaine lay with his eyes closed, slightly raised up on his pillows. He turned back round, slightly disappointed.

"I think he's asleep."

"So…we should come back later?" Asked Finn.

"Maybe…or we could go in, but just sit in silence…or…" But Kurt was interrupted by a fragile, light, far away voice.

"Or you could stop talking and come in here? Fooled you, dummy."

Before his friends' eyes, Kurt's face lit up and split into a huge grin. He disappeared round the door. Mercedes, Rachel and Finn all exchanged looks with a smile, and followed him. Blaine smiled at them over Kurt's shoulder as the two embraced.

"Hi guys, thanks for coming."

Finn was struck by how pale he looked, and how tired. A single tube of oxygen still snaked into his nose, taped delicately to his left cheekbone. He hesitated but then, as Kurt backed away, moved forwards. He took an offered hand and held it.

"Hey man; good to see you. So good."

Blaine smiled. Rachel and Mercedes both came up and hugged him; carefully and warily through the wires which still laced the bed. Kurt drew up some more chairs from a corner and they all sat; Kurt near Blaine's head, swivelled so that the two of them faced the rest.

"We've got presents," smiled Kurt, like a little kid. He offered up his package. Blaine rolled his eyes secretively at Rachel and Mercedes, and they laughed. But he ripped the paper slowly, and kissed Kurt in thanks all the same. In truth he could not conceal his happiness at the choice of movies.

"And, oh my gosh, you guys didn't need to bring flowers." Rachel blushed, leaning them against an already full table. Blaine looked them over earnestly. "They're gorgeous. But…if it's ok…do you mind if I give them to one of the nurses? Otherwise they just go to waste in here?"

"Of course."

"Thanks."

They paused. Finn shuffled to sit on his hands.

"We met your dad." He offered.

"Oh yeah?" Said Blaine, reaching slowly for a bottle on the nightstand. Kurt passed it to him and their hands touched. He drank slowly and haltingly. "Just now? In the corridor?"

"Yeah. He seems really nice."

There was another silence.

Kurt leaned forward and brushed the hair from Blaine's forehead. A ladder of white stitches crept away from his hand into the hairline, over-lacing a dark purplish pink crevice. It was visible, maybe even ugly, but it did nothing to mutilate the handsome beauty Kurt saw before him. Blaine winced in spite of himself.

"They took the bandage off?"

"I know. This morning."

"It looks good. Fine."

"Really? I haven't seen it yet. I wasn't really awake."

Rachel glanced up at Kurt, then looked to Blaine.

"Blaine?"

He pulled his eyes slowly from Kurt's to face her. "Mmm?"

"I've got a mirror in my bag, if you'd like?" She gestured. Kurt looked worried for a second, but Blaine laughed.

"Ok…alright, go on then. I guess I'm gonna have to look at it for ever anyway; might as well start now."

She reached down and rummaged until pulling it out and standing up, glancing at Kurt. Moving forward she handed him the mirror. Blaine pushed down on his hands and slid himself higher on his pillows. For a second he had to pause and close his eyes. But then he opened them, letting out a long, low whistle of breath and looked Kurt in the eyes.

"Show me the monster, then." He half smiled, but Kurt heard all the nervousness in his voice. He made his eyes into a statement: _You don't have to do this_. But Blaine's stared evenly back at him: _Yes, I do_. Kurt held up the mirror to that beautiful face.

Blaine's eyes widened. He swallowed and looked from his face to his forehead and back again. Like a child he raised his hand slowly, watching it in the mirror. Kurt saw an innocent recognition ignite in his eyes; the image, with its purple gash, and he, were one and the same. Blaine closed his eyes and walked his fingers along its length, feeling the puckered ridges, wincing at the bruised tenderness. But then he sniffed, shook his hair back into place and opened his eyes; he avoided the mirror. With a nod to himself he looked up at them all.

"No…that's ok. It's not too bad…"

Kurt put the mirror down, sliding it over the bed, over Blaine's legs, to Rachel. He took up Blaine's hand again. It shook slightly.

"It'll fade. And when you're hair's down, you can hardly see it. Only if you look."

Finn nodded in agreement and spoke up cheerily. "Besides, chicks love scars." Kurt gave him a look of disbelief. "Oh…oh right…" Why did he never think before he opened his mouth? "Um…well…guys think they're cool too? Right, Kurt?"

Blaine gave a small laugh. Mercedes couldn't help a huge grin breaking across her face. Rachel punched Finn on the arm.

"I think it's cute, Blaine." She added. He smiled again.

"Thanks guys."

"I think it's dashing." Smiled Kurt. "Heroic. It's going to remind me never to take you for granted." He kissed the hand he held. Rachel bent forwards to pick up the mirror and put it back in her bag, but Blaine, watching their faces and seeing their optimism, pushed out his left hand.

"Wait, Rachel. Can I have it again? Just for a second." He wasn't going to let his new impression of himself be a disfigured one. She passed him the mirror and he looked into it, studying the familiar face, noting every new line, every shade of red and pink and purple and white, compiling the image. Biting his lip, he passed the mirror back to her. Kurt watched him anxiously. Blaine stretched his neck and scratched his hand next to his IV line.

"I feel like a less glamorous and sexy version of Harry Potter." He pronounced.

Kurt laughed along with the others and bent forward, glad of the smile on Blaine's face.

"You're still supermegafoxyawesomehot to me."


	32. Apology

Later that evening, after Finn, Rachel and Mercedes had left, Blaine had fallen asleep without a sound on Kurt's shoulder during the last bars of the reprise of _Somewhere_, leaving Kurt to cry through the final minutes of the film on his own. The room was dark except for the white glow of the laptop screen resting on both their legs as they sat in the too-small bed, and the unflickering lights of the ever present monitors and machines; red and green like Christmas lights. Blaine's dressing gown was draped over their shoulders and, with wet cheeks, Kurt sank into its warmness. It smelt like Blaine; warm, safe, beautiful. The dark mahogany hair on his shoulder fell against his chin and tickled him. Smiling through his tears as the credits began to roll, darkening the room even further, Kurt reached up and brushed the soft curls with his fingers, revealing the creeping scar. Blaine murmured in his sleep and nestled into Kurt's shirt with a sigh, shrugging his shoulder and raising his hand so that it fell onto Kurt's chest. Kurt smiled again.

He glanced at the glowing clock in the corner of the screen. 23:19. He should have been home hours ago. Blaine should have been long asleep. But Finn would make an excuse for him, and there was always a bed or a chair for him here. Somewhere._ Somehow_. With a tiny chuckle he hummed the next few bars in his light soprano: _we'll find a new way of living…_

He took up Blaine's hand. _And we're halfway there…_

A further tear ran down his cheek at the melodrama of it; there, in the almost black and white hospital room, lying side by side.

"But I get to be Maria…" he mumbled, into the darkness. Closing the laptop lid quietly, with an immense effort not to move and wake Blaine, he slid it off their legs and onto the side table. There was silence apart from Blaine's low breathing and the echoes of the wonderful music in his head. Slowly, in a deep cocoon of warmth and pleasure and melodies, Kurt's eyes closed, and he drifted away.

* * *

><p>A cool breeze floating across his face made Kurt wake slowly. A hazy dawn light was filtering around him. He could see a window, a box of light, with gauzy curtains floating around it. His back and neck were stiff, but as he tried to move he felt two weights holding him down. He looked to his right, squinting through his eyelashes in the brightness. Blaine lay there, eyes closed, mouth slightly open, hair a mess as it spread across his shoulder. Kurt remembered where he was.<p>

But then the weight on his other shoulder shifted, and he twisted to look. Blaine's mom stood there, half raised from her seat, her hand hovering just above him, outstretched. Kurt blinked at her in drowsy confusion, but she smiled.

"Shhh, you'll wake Blaine." Her voice was clear and light. Her flowery dress merged with the posies on the table behind her. Kurt blinked once more.

"Don't worry," she spoke again, looking over his head at Blaine's sleeping face. "I haven't been here long. It's not eight yet, and I don't think even the nurse has been in."

Kurt relaxed his back and leaned into the musty dressing gown which still lay behind them. He realised someone had placed a blanket over his legs. Blaine snuffled into his arm. Seeing him relax, Mrs Anderson dropped back into her chair, placing her hands in her lap. Kurt rubbed his hand over his face; he best make his apologies and leave. He didn't want any more tension.

"I'm…I'm sorry. I didn't mean to fall asleep. I just…"

She interrupted him, holding her hand up again. "No, no, don't worry. You both looked so peaceful; I bet it was one of the best rests you've had in a while?"

Kurt had to nod. It was true.

Mrs Anderson gave a slight giggle and looked down at the floor. "It's odd, you know. Even in my hotel room I slept well last night. For the first time since…" She waved her hand in a vague gesture, but Kurt understood. Since all this. She shrugged. "Maybe it was because I knew at some unconscious level that he wasn't alone…wasn't in pain." She bit her lip, smearing her lipstick ever so slightly so that a tiny streak of pink remained on the bottom of her teeth. "I'm sorry for the way I've acted, Kurt. You didn't deserve it."

Kurt was silent, held between hot and cold by the warmth of Blaine and the breeze. He watched as Mrs Anderson straightened up to look him in the eye, placing a hand on his arm.

"I know you probably have no sympathy with me for saying this, but the last five or six years have been pretty hard for me and my husband." Kurt swallowed and stiffened slightly. He didn't know where this was going.

"I mean, we love Blaine, we do, with all our hearts. He's such a ray of sunshine; such a brilliant boy." Her eyes drifted over Kurt's face to her son's.

"But this…" Once again she gestured, her hand waving over them both. Kurt felt his heart harden for a moment. Oh. So that's what she was trying to say. Her hand pressed into his arm, as if trying to hold him down.

"You have to understand, Kurt. When you have children," Her voice caught on the word and her gaze quivered. Kurt knew that look. She'd obviously spent a million nights agonising over the fear that Blaine would _never_ have children. "You…you plan things for them. I know it sounds stupid, but it just happens."

There was a pause. Blaine shifted again and settled.

"You see their lives planned ahead of you…their school, their achievements, maybe even their failures. And you see them in love." Kurt wanted to leave so badly. Could he excuse himself on the grounds that he had to get to school? No…Mrs Anderson knew that McKinley had given him special leave, and that he was allowed to be late or to miss a day if he chose. Her eyes blinked away tears. Oh God, she was going to cry. Kurt looked round at Blaine's sleeping form, willing the nurse to come in and break the awkwardness. But Mrs Anderson went on regardless, chokingly, and Kurt had the feeling she wasn't going to stop until she'd confessed her entire heart to him.

"But, Kurt, when Blaine came to us all those years ago, and told us…" Another sentiment she couldn't express. "Well…as parents, you go through so much. You wonder if it's just a phase, whether there's just one boy that he's found, and if you wait, whether it'll pass. Or you think that it might be something to do with the way you've raised him…I know his father went out of his way to try and bond with him…" Kurt recoiled physically. Oh yes, he'd heard all about the car building projects. She didn't seem to notice. Her eyes were now fixed on her son.

"Lord, we even got the money together to send him to an all boys' school so that, away from all the bullying and in some kind of macho environment or something, he might be able to rethink himself." Kurt blanched at the words. But they also awoke something in his own mind. Had his father gone through this? When he was four and demanding dresses and Broadway tickets for Christmas?

"Then we kept getting these letters home from his tutors and houseparents, saying how brilliantly he was doing, how popular he was, how he'd found a second family in the Warblers. And we though, stupid as we were, that it might have happened, that something might have changed." She pressed his arm again, realising the tone of what she was saying. "Kurt, you have to realise how naïve we were, how blinded by our prejudices. We had no reference for this kind of thing, no one to ask about our 'problem', as we saw it. We couldn't tell our friends; though we lived in constant fear that they'd find out. We'd go to church and sit at the back, not making eye contact with our neighbours. I think we had some crazy idea that they'd see it on us, as if it was a disease or something. That we'd smell like a showtune and have glitter in our hair. Our obsession with this single part of our son was stopping us from seeing the man he'd grown into, without our help." She sniffed and pursed her lips, but pushed on determinedly.

"And then we went up to the end of term concert. It was the Christmas recital. We hadn't seen him since that first day, since dropping him off and driving away from our issues. He'd spent the midterm break with a friend and his family. I remember how, over the phone, he'd told us how nice this friend's sisters had been. And we'd latched onto that single sentence as a breakthrough."

"But then we sat in the auditorium, amongst all those other parents, and he came out on stage and sang and danced, and we could see that nothing had changed. Well, nothing of _that_ had changed…But he seemed older, braver and happier than we'd ever seen him. All the other parents were whispering, smiling and pointing at our little boy as he stole the show. There were girls, girlfriends of the other boys, I guess, in that audience, looking up at him and cheering. And all the boys were rooting for him; on his side. No one was judging him. They were all just in awe of him. And, Kurt, I've never felt pride as I felt in that moment. Never saw the error of my ways so clearly."

Her fingers lifted from his arm and held his hands. "We took him home that holiday; and I was so desperate to show him how much I had changed. His father was away with work most of the time, and I think to begin with Blaine was uneasy; neither of us really knew where this suddenly epiphany moment had come from." She squeezed his hand. "When he talked, it was only about school, only about the Warblers, only about you." Kurt felt his heart glow and his cheeks redden in spite of himself. "He would tell me everything that had happened to you, that had driven you away from your own school, and it made me realise what he must have been through in those years when we weren't watching. Kurt, you helped us so much in those weeks that I can't thank you enough. I was useless at talking to him about what had happened, what we had done, but as soon as I mentioned your name he would open up and talk for hours."

She gave another small giggle and looked down at the floor. "You know, it's funny. All that time I just assumed the two of you were dating. It was just the way he spoke about you." She lowered her voice slightly to imitate Blaine's, letting a smile grow over her face until she looked even more like him. "_'Kurt said this…'_ and _'Oh, mom, it was so funny, we were in the coffee shop, and this happened, and you should have seen the look on Kurt's face…'_" Kurt gave a small smile too, glad that the mood had lightened.

"But then this whole thing with Jeremiah came up." Kurt's face tightened. Oh. She glanced up at him, the same look reflected in her eyes. Her mouth creased, as did Kurt's, and they both laughed. "I guess we understand each other there?" She giggled, but then her face grew serious.

"See, Kurt, this is why I'm so sorry. Because, you and me," She pointed her small fingers with the words, "I think we're quite alike in some ways. In the way we care about him." Her hand twitched, as though she longed to reach out and hold her son, to back up her words. "Apparently I'm a bit of a specialist when it comes to the single-moment-realisation thing, because when I walked in here this morning, I saw that. The two of you, just sleeping there. It was the most natural, most heart warming thing in the world. You both deserve each other so much." Tears crept into her eyes again, and this time Kurt kept watching. He was genuinely surprised and moved. She pulled a waiting tissue from the sleeve of her cardigan and dabbed at her eyes with it.

"So, I just wanted to say…because I had to let you know…how sorry I am for the _bitch_," She spat the word out of her mouth, "I was to you in that hallway, and at any other time." Kurt saw in his mind the image of her retreating back and dagger eyes as she'd abandoned him without answer in the ER, and those same eyes protecting her son in the hours after he had woken up. He flinched.

"Kurt," She squeezed his hand again, pleadingly. "I was so jealous. So jealous that someone else might have taken the son I had regained away from me. It brought back all the anger I thought I'd lost, and filled me with it. I'm sorry…"

She pressed her hand to her face; the very image of Blaine. After a second though, she let a hollow laugh escape through her tears. "You know what makes me feel worse thought?" Kurt gulped at the rhetorical question. He had nothing to say; what could he say to make the situation better?

"That I was actually angry at him when I found out what had happened. When I was piecing it together from what Finn, and the police, and those other boys…um…" She struggled with the names, not wanting to pass them over as pointless. "Um…Dave, that's it. Dave and Noah. From what they all told me. I was so angry that he'd flown in there without a thought for me, or for his father, or for the danger he was putting himself into." Kurt sniffed. He knew what she really meant was that she'd blamed him, Kurt, for putting Blaine in that situation.

"I was angry at him for having the courage that I wouldn't have had." She spoke frankly. "And because I knew that courage had come from you." She leaned forwards and Kurt couldn't read the look in her eyes. "But then he came back. He woke up. And he wanted to see me, and he hugged me and said he loved me. And, Kurt, I just couldn't be mad any more, not if he wasn't, not if it would hurt him or make him sad."

She stopped. Blaine moved again on Kurt's shoulder, his eyelid flickering but then resting once more. Kurt felt that somewhere in that final statement he was meant to find a sincere apology.

"'s ok…" He muttered, embarrassed at the weakness of the gesture. Blaine's mom relaxed slightly, leaning backward in her chair. She smiled.

"I know I must sound like…like a complete…Well, anyway, I know I haven't made things easier, let's just say. But I hope…well, you really are an amazing boy yourself Kurt, and…" Kurt knew what she needed. He smiled.

"I forgive you."

Mrs Anderson smiled bashfully. "Thank you." She half stood again and reaching delicately over Kurt took up Blaine's hand as well. He fidgeted at the touch and his eyes opened wearily. He blinked a few times, taking in their faces watching him and the feeling of Kurt's body lying alongside his own.

"Wh…what are you two up to?" He shifted stiffly and stretched, curling back around Kurt instinctively, nestling into his warmth and softness.

"Nothing, honey," Said his mom, smiling at Kurt. "Just swapping embarrassing stories about you."

"Oh…good…" He puckered his lips dryly. "Can you shut the curtains?" His mom let go of their hands and rose, obeying him. "And keep you voices down?" He let his eyes drift shut again, but not before gazing up at Kurt's face and brushing his cheek against his soft shirt. "Don't let her get out any baby pictures."


	33. Garden

"What do you remember?"

Kurt sat at one end of Blaine's bed as Blaine lay at the other, facing him. The light and sounds of a summer's day were drifting in through the open window. Blaine was sitting up, free of tubes and wires. And he was wearing his own clothes. Kurt smiled quietly as he thought how strange this looked; some naïve part of his mind had believed that when Blaine was allowed out of the staunched, dry hospital pyjamas, he would immediately put on his Dalton blazer. It wasn't often Kurt got a taste of Blaine's fashion sense and, whilst it wasn't quite as extrovert as his own, he appreciated the dashing effect he managed to pull off. Although, as he had reminded Blaine when he came into the room, he still looked pretty silly, tucked up in bed in chinos and a shirt.

"Hmm?" Blaine's concentration was focused on attempting to do up his watch. His fingers seemed to have half forgotten a lot of their uses in such a short space of time. Kurt waited until he'd just about managed it.

"What do you remember?"

"You mean, how much do I remember?"

Blaine finished and looked up at him, slightly triumphantly, folding his hands in his lap. A square of plaster jutted up from the back of one of them, from where the drip had been removed.

"No; what do you remember?"

Blaine crinkled his eyebrows. "Is this some sort of test?" He didn't get what Kurt was getting at. "Because I'm gonna be getting enough of that tomorrow."

"No, no. No test. I was just wondering, that's all…" Kurt's voice and eyes drifted away. Blaine watched him cautiously. He'd been distant and overly thoughtful all day, and Blaine was beginning to think there was something behind it that he wasn't being told.

But maybe it was the simple fact that he was nervous about tomorrow. God; tomorrow. Blaine shuddered slightly. He'd been trying not to think about it; trying to focus instead on the happiness of being able to go home, of being able to see his friends and get back on with his life. But tomorrow stood like a towering brick wall between him and all that. Tomorrow.

Tomorrow was trial day; the first day, as his mom had explained, for witnesses against Mr Puckerman, the man who'd tried to kill him. Who'd tried to kill all of them. And Blaine was supposed to be there. And Kurt. And all the others. They'd have to sit there, on show, paraded in front of a jury and a judge, in the same room as that…that man. There'd be questions, hundreds of questions, which Blaine knew he would have no answer for. They'd only take him back to blank memories of pain and vague voices, and weird dreams that he would never reveal to a courtroom of strangers. Tomorrow was the last thing in the world he wanted.

Of course, he didn't have to go. For perhaps the first time in his life his mother was encouraging him to throw a sick day; oddly it was also probably the first time he'd had a genuine excuse. But the idea of running made Blaine feel even worse. If he did, then all he'd be doing would be delaying the pain for a few more days; and he'd just stay the wrong side of that brick wall. No. He had to get it over and done with.

"Blaine?" Kurt's voice broke through his thoughts. He sighed and looked up. Kurt's eyes were anxious. "Sorry. I…I didn't mean to say anything that…I didn't mean to upse…" He ran out of words, his eyes startled and adorable. Blaine tried to smile. Even in the midst of everything, Kurt still had the ability to make him smile.

"No, Kurt, don't apologise. You didn't do anything." There was a moment of silence as they looked at each other intensely. Blaine wished he could shift the anger and tension from his chest and just bask in this time alone with Kurt. He wanted so much for everything to be perfect between them. "Wha…what did you ask again?"

Kurt gave a small look of panic. "If…if you don't want to talk about it, then that's fine…"

"No. I want to. If you want to know, then I want to tell you."

Kurt considered the words for a moment. "It…it was just something my dad said; about what he…went through…"

"About what he saw?"

"No…" Kurt looked up at Blaine. _Seeing _wasn't the obvious sense he would have pinpointed. "Not exactly. He said he could hear little things; like the sound of people in the corridor outside his room, or a radio show from when he was a kid. Dumb things like that, you know? And…I was just wondering…whether…"

Blaine gazed at Kurt's face. It was so honest and innocent, despite everything he'd been through this year. Nothing was hidden.

"Whether the same thing had happened to me?"

Kurt's cheeks reddened. "Well, yeah."

Blaine sighed and shifted on his pillows, throwing the blanket back so that only the ends of his legs were covered. It bunched against Kurt as he sat curled into the footboard. It was really too hot and too bizarre to be wearing his home clothes in a bed. He wanted to get up, to go for a walk, to go outside. So far all he'd been allowed were tentative trips to the bathroom, each time with a hovering nurse constantly reminding him that he might collapse at any moment from some ungodly relapse or something. He wanted to take back control of his own body. An idea struck in his mind and he looked up at Kurt.

"Want to break a few rules? Something naughty?" He made sure his voice implied nothing of innuendo the words sparked in his own imagination; God, he did need some control.

Kurt bit his lip, but then smiled when he saw a sparkle in Blaine's eye. "How? What?"

Blaine kicked at the blanket once more, freeing his legs, and swung them out of the bed. In that one movement he felt blood rush back into slumbering muscles, and pins and needles broke up through his shins. He grimaced. Kurt's eyes had widened, and as Blaine made to stand up he scrambled over the bed and caught him by the arm.

"Don't." Blaine's voice was firm but kind. He shrugged out of Kurt's hands. "I'm fine."

"Blaine, I really don't think this is a good idea…" Kurt tried, walking behind him as Blaine slipped on his waiting shoes and headed for the door. Kurt watched his slow legs, jerking his hands out at every twitch, ready to catch him.

"Would you stop that? I'm not gonna die on you." Kurt didn't know how Blaine could joke like that. But then they reached the door, and Kurt's eyes fell on an offered hand. He looked up into Blaine's calm but eager face. "Come on, we're in the hospital anyway. What's the worst that could happen?"

'_Famous last words'_ thought Kurt, but looking at the expression in those hazel eyes he forced his common sense aside and took up the hand offered to him. "Alright. But just for half an hour."

"Alright, _mom_." Blaine winked, with the mischievous grin that had been missing from him for these last few weeks. "An hour it is…"

Before Kurt could do anything but gulp in reply, he had opened the door, glanced left and right, and pulled them through it.

* * *

><p>Twenty minutes of unnecessarily childish Charlie's Angles impressions later, and Kurt found himself in an unknown haven. The two of them sat, face to face, on a weathered bench amongst low trees, bowed and groaning with blossom. Their legs and knees were between them, tangled in each other. Kurt held a cold paper bowl in both his hands; from somewhere Blaine had been able to produce enough change for two scoops of ice cream. One bowl, two spoons.<p>

"I didn't even know this place existed..." Whispered Kurt as an elderly couple shuffled past, arm in arm. The woman leant on a wheeled saline stand, which bounced and rattled over the rough path of the garden.

"I saw it on the plan outside my room when I last went to the bathroom." Blaine whispered back, watching the couple as they disappeared around a bend in the path between bushes and trees. "I never thought that they'd have something like this; it's gorgeous, isn't it?" He reached up to one of the violently pink branches and plucked a garland of blossom, rolling the stem between his fingers so that the flowers spun fiercely. A single petal broke free and drifted towards Kurt. He stuck out a finger to catch it before it could land in the bowl.

"What time is your mom coming to get you?" Kurt said, still slightly unnerved by what they were doing.

Blaine bent forwards and looked up at him, almost disappointed. "Does it really matter?" Kurt was silent, abashed. Blaine softened his voice and shook the moment off. "Anyway, don't worry, we'll be back well before then." He reached and took one of Kurt's hands from around the bowl; the one with the bright pink silky blossom stuck to it. Then, with another roguish smile, he picked out one of the spoons, a lurid plastic neon orange, and curled it into the ice cream.

"Role reversal time," he joked, lifting it into the space between them.

"What?" Kurt watched closely. But Blaine laughed again and bent even further forwards. And Kurt got the idea. Slowly, deliciously, he let Blaine feed him the cool, melting sweetness. And he couldn't help smiling; especially when a drip broke free from his lips and coursed down his chin, causing Blaine to chase it with his ugly spoon, his eyes laughing, gorgeous and happy. Kurt spluttered unattractively at the ridiculous face Blaine pulled as the drip ran down onto his neck, sending tiny specks of white vanilla showering from his mouth. And Blaine sniggered. And Kurt snorted. And suddenly they were doubled up; crying with laughter, covered in ice cream. It was bliss.

"Oh…oh…oh my gosh, stop it, Kurt," Giggled Blaine, breathing loudly and pressing the hand with the spoon to his streaming eyes, "Oh, that's too funny."

"You stop," Squealed Kurt, as Blaine went after him with the spoon again.

And suddenly, in an instant, they both stopped. They were face to face, inches apart. Kurt stopped breathing. He heard the spoon tinkle away as it fell from Blaine's hand, onto the wooden bench and down through the slats to the floor. Then that same hand unfurled against the side of his face; cold and soft. Blaine blinked. Kurt almost believed he could feel the breath of air fanned by those gorgeous lashes blow onto his cheek.

They kissed. And kissed again. Kurt felt all of his inexpressible emotions flood to his lips in those tender touches. The tip of his tongue caught the cold ridges of Blaine's teeth. As one they leaned closer, deeper. Blaine led a shuddering breath pass between their lips as his hand inched backwards into Kurt's oh so soft hair. Kurt drifted blissfully in the moment, lost behind his closed eyes, sinking into the velvety darkness.

And suddenly the _EEeeeeeaaaaa_ blare of a siren rocked through the garden, driving birds flapping up into the air. Blaine and Kurt both jumped backwards, both reddening, as if they'd been caught red handed. But then, as if sinking down from a dream, they remembered where they were. Blaine smiled, then laughed, at Kurt's wild eyes and clasped his hand to his heart dramatically.

"Jeez, not a moment's peace?"

Kurt didn't know what to say. He was just gazing at Blaine's face, realising what he had almost lost. His mind had been drifting around the thought all day, but the shock of the siren had sent it juddering straight to his heart. Without thinking his eyes began to fill with tears. Blaine stopped smiling.

"Hey, hey, what is it?" He lifted his hand from his chest and placed it on Kurt's face once more, running his finger under his shadowed eyes. Kurt sniffed, turning away, embarrassed with himself.

"No…nothing."

Blaine waited a second, but the bright, happy Kurt he'd kissed did not return.

"Well…there's obviously something. Hey, hey," he soothed, as real tears began to roll silently down Kurt's cheeks. "Tell me?"

"No, no…It's just me being stupid."

"Kurt, nothing you could ever say would be just you being stupid. And neither is anything that might make you cry. Come on, please? Is it about tomorrow?"

Kurt's heart pounded with the true distress in Blaine's voice. Now he'd gone and worried him. Great. Way to spoil the moment, Kurt.

He breathed deeply in one shuddering sob.

"No…no, it's not about tomorrow. As much as I wish that was never going to happen." He looked up into Blaine's face, still only inches away from his. Was there anything he could do to make sure that face never moved further away? "It's just…it's ju…" He couldn't express it; couldn't force out the words against his choking emotions. He hid his face in his hands, throwing the half empty bowl onto the ground.

Blaine lifted his legs so that they slid to one side of Kurt on the bench and putting his arms out, even though Kurt tried to shy away, he enveloped him, letting his head rest on his shoulder.

"Hey," Blaine soothed, stroking his hair as his mother had always done when he was little. "There's nothing to be upset about, yeah? I'm right here."

Kurt looped his hands over Blaine's arms and drew himself into the embrace. "Okay…just…just promise you'll never go? Never again?" He choked, feeling so childish and ridiculous at the words, even thought they were the only ones he could find to express himself.

"Never." Blaine thought for a moment. Three words were on the tip of his tongue, but they were triggering some memory. He watched as tiny fragments unfurled in his mind. "I told you, before." He said firmly.

"What?"

Blaine kissed Kurt's soft, warm neck. "It was in the locker room. Honestly;" he feigned exasperation. "You ask me to remember. Don't you remember?"

The words and the memories they brought back stung Kurt's mind. He didn't want to remember. "No. What was it?"

Blaine smiled into Kurt's hair. At least he got to say it again. He lowered his voice to a whisper, pulling back to gaze into Kurt's face with the most serene smile upon his lips.

"I love you."

Kurt sat for the longest moment. The words floated in the air, and bit by bit his mind absorbed them. With each sound, with each motion of Blaine's lips, he felt his skin tingle, felt drops of pure ecstasy run through his veins. He did remember now; how Blaine had whispered those words in the darkness and fear of the boys' locker room. How his voice had sounded so faint, so tired, filled with so much pain. He remembered how the words had haunted him the entire way to the hospital, lingering like an echo in his mind. When had he forgotten them? He knew why he had. Even now, in the bliss of the garden, the ghostly memory in his mind scared him. That time, the words hadn't been about love, or devotion; they'd been a goodbye.

He looked into the living, sparkling eyes before him. They were so much brighter, so different from those that had looked up at him from his own arms, ringed with blood and stained with tears. But suddenly Kurt's throat moved, and his mouth opened of its own accord, fulfilling the wishes of his mind.

"I…I love you too."

Blaine smiled. But he saw the memories his words had awoken reflected in the shadows of Kurt's face.

"You remembered?"

Kurt could only nod. They were silent for a moment, still only inches apart under the trees. Blaine turned something over in his mind. Was the moment right for it? He traced a line with his finger down Kurt's face, running the back of his fingers along the prefect jaw line.

"You still want to hear what I remember?"

Kurt looked slightly panicked. He now saw how hard tomorrow was going to be; going back to those darkest corners of his mind, to the worst experiences of his life. How could he have asked Blaine to do that as well? He shook his head hastily.

Blaine chewed his lip. "What if I said that I want to tell you?"

Kurt didn't understand. Blaine took his hand from Kurt's face and picked up one of his hands, turning it over in his own.

"I _want_ to tell someone, Kurt." His voice betrayed him slightly, letting out a burst of anxiety. Kurt shuffled closer, his chest rising and falling. As he spoke Blaine looked down at the bench, closing and opening his eyes at intervals, as if to place himself back in the moment. At one point he put his hand to his face, rubbing it in frustration, until the tips of his fingers brushed his scar, and his hand froze. After a pause he lowered his hands back into his lap.

"I...I had these dreams, Kurt. Really, really vivid dreams, where I could hear and see and feel. The first few times it felt like everything was real. You were there and you would talk to me. But…" He struggled to find the words to express the fear of those lonely hours of darkness. "But I just couldn't wake up. You would always ask me to, mom would ask me to, dad as well. Hell, even Puck turned up in one of them. And I would try so hard; so, so, so hard. I didn't want anything except to come back to you. You'd pull me along, begging me, helping me, making all these promises. But I'd always fall or slip or run too slowly. Then the dream would end; you'd be gone. And I wouldn't be awake."

He sighed and blinked back tears. "It was just never ending darkness, Kurt. But darkness with pain…and I didn't understand…couldn't remember why I was there…or what had happened…"

He trailed to silence, and it was Kurt's turn to lean forwards and gather his boyfriend into him. Blaine snuffled against his ear, but gritted his teeth. He'd started this, and he needed to finish it. "I thought through all these possibilities, Kurt. But it would hurt, and then the dream would come back, and all the emotions would be just as raw. It was like a never ending cycle, with no change, no day or night, just dreams and darkness and voices. I guess those were the same as what your dad had." Blaine sniffed, wiped his eyes and straightened up, giving a weak watery smile.

"But then you came again. With Karofsky. And suddenly I could almost escape the dark. Something broke; I actually felt it, physically, like an elastic band stretched too far, and suddenly I could hear properly. It was only him talking, though, and I had to know where you were."

Kurt smiled. "When I heard Dave shout…I've never run so fast in my life."

Blaine smiled too. "It seemed to take forever." He winked. "I think I remember Dave freaking out ever so slightly. And then you jumped on top of me and the nurses had to pull you off?"

Kurt began to redden. "Maybe…"

Blaine's smile grew. "Can't keep your hands off me."

Kurt laughed. "Don't flatter yourself."

"It's true though, isn't it?" Said Blaine, the glint returning to his eye. He dove forwards and began to tickle Kurt. Kurt squealed and squirmed, rocking backwards until Blaine was almost on top of him. "Is it because I'm just as adorable and gorgeous as you are?" He teased. "No, no, it can't be. That's not possible. Um…"

Kurt kicked out playfully; both his arms were pinned against his chest by Blaine's body. He was helpless and choking with laughter. "No, noo, Blaine! Stop please!"

Blaine paused for a second, seemingly considering his victim, but then redoubled his efforts. The smile on his face grew larger with every charming squeak. He began to mock sing. ""Is it because _you want my bod-ay, and you think I'm sex-ay_? Or…or is it because of my phenomenal dancing skills? Come on Kurt; why do I deserve you?"

Kurt gasped through hysterical tears. "Mercy! Please!"

With a single look of love, Blaine stilled his hands and sat up, breathing heavily himself. He slid his legs round and sat properly, as Kurt struggled upright and brushed himself down. He saw the forgotten ice cream; it had dribbled over onto the ground and was slowly trickling along the edge of the path. Kurt glanced at his watch, trying to fan away the bright, hot, giveaway complexion of his face.

"Oh, crap, we better get you back upstairs."

Blaine looked at his own watch, willing the hands to have stopped. But they hadn't. He stood up, hair brushing the laden branches as he did so. Kurt got up beside him, and Blaine took him arm. For a moment the blood rushed back to his head, his eyes clouded and all he had was Kurt's arm to hold onto. All of a sudden, he realised he actually felt quite tired.

"Lead the way."

Kurt placed his hand on Blaine's arm. It was hot to the touch. He looked at that tired face in worry. But Blaine smiled back. He was fine; better than fine actually. Every day had to be a step along the road, and he'd taken today's step, that was all.

"Come on then," He urged, walking forwards and dragging Kurt after him. "Unless you want the blame when we see my mother."

"Oh, my fault is it?" Joked Kurt, trying to surreptitiously slip his hand under Blaine's arm and tickle him. Blaine swatted him away playfully.

"Uh, yes I believe it is."

"What? For being too damn _adorable_?"

Blaine swatted again, but couldn't contain a giggle of joy. Slowly they passed around the corner of the path and back towards the hospital for the last time. Kurt let the sound of _I love you_ ring in his ears once more.

* * *

><p><strong>Klaine forever :D xxx<strong>


	34. Court

Just a small warning: The language in this section is bit rougher than what has gone before (although all words have appeared previously) - hopefully if you've got this far you'll understand any usage in context, but I appologise for any offence which may be caused.

* * *

><p>Finn sat in a long, empty, panelled corridor. Tall windows stood at each end, their light almost barred by dark, leafy trees. Through one Finn could just see the oscillating outline of the state flag. Benches lined either side of the polished floor, and Finn sat almost in the middle, his legs stretched in front of him, shiny shoes balanced one on top of the other. He was wearing a suit, and it made him uncomfortable. It had been his dad's; his mom had dragged it out of the closet the previous morning, and it was stiff, and itchy. It smelt like a memory. Rubbing his eyes he laced his hands behind his head and leaned backwards against the wall. He couldn't hear anything at all. Despite everything that was going on in this very building, nothing reached this corridor. Only an eerie silence.<p>

He closed his eyes and ran his hands through his hair. For the last, he looked at his watch, twenty minutes he'd been running his lyrics for Nationals through his head, time and time again, until there were no mistakes, no rough points. It'd made him realise the irony of _Pretending_; so much had changed since he'd written that.

But now he'd run out of them, so he was going back through every Glee club number he could remember. He was surprised how much actually came back to him. In his mind he saw the different scenes from their earliest days; the auditorium and _Don't Stop Believing_, the choir room and the mash up of _Confessions Part II _and _It's My Life_, even the damp parking lot where Rachel had made him film _Run, Joey, Run_. God; he was glad they'd come such a long way from that.

With a bored sigh and another glance at his watch he started on _I'll Stand By You_. But at the same time he was relieved; relieved that doing this was keeping his mind occupied and distracted. Each song brought today closer to an end. _So if you're mad, get mad, don't hold it all inside, come on and talk to me now…_ Damn. Did it move into the chorus then, or was there another verse? Finn began to hum under his breath. A door banged somewhere in the distance, and then the quiet resumed. He closed his eyes in frustration, turning the words over and over in his mind. _Talk to me now_…

He heard another bang, and then voices, echoing down the hallways, filtered and hushed.

"…ok, baby?"

"Just go back…fine…minute…"

"…sure? I'll go get…"

"No. Don't."

There was more silence. Finn opened his eyes and abandoned the song. More scraping sounds, then a low, gruff voice, broke down the hallway. There was some low muttering, then a firm, angry: "Go." A door closed.

Finn listened. Something about the atmosphere had changed. He knew that he was no longer alone, that someone was around that bend in the corridor. He heard a low sniffling shuffling, and then a heavy grating as someone slumped onto a bench, as he had done. Finn got up, and began to walk as quietly as he could towards the window at the end of the corridor, his bored curiosity getting the better of him.

Reaching the high windows, he lent against the pillar of the wall and leaned out to glance around the corner. He'd been right, there was someone there. But then Finn became worried. Because it was Blaine who sat in the corridor, head back against the wall, eyes closed. Shit. Was he hurt? Sick? The guy looked upset, and Finn didn't want to intrude. But he was sure Blaine was supposed to be in the court right now, along with Kurt and Dave. It was their session as witnesses; Finn had watched them all walk in this morning, Burt and Kurt, holding Blaine's hand, and Dave and his parents.

Tentatively he took a step out, pushing himself into the light from the window.

"Blaine?"

He watched him flinch but then look up.

"Oh, Finn." He wiped his eyes on the back on his sleeve. He was also wearing a suit, but Finn thought it suited him, fitting to him like his Dalton uniform did, emphasising the best of his features. Finn felt a small spike of jealousy. Blaine obviously wasn't borrowing his dead father's tux. "Sorry, ah…uh, you made me jump."

"Sorry." Finn took another step forwards, standing awkwardly halfway between corridors. "I was just sitting, like, round there," He gestured back over his shoulder, turning, "And I heard the doors, and…" What was he really trying to say here? "Um…Blaine? Are you ok?"

Blaine looked up at him and smiled sadly. "Yeah. Sorry." He wiped his eyes again. "Just…just…sorry…got a bit _emotional_ in there and…"

Finn edged forwards awkwardly again, but stopped as Blaine threw out his arms and began to struggle out of his jacket. He threw it down onto the bench beside himself in disgust and ran his hands up into his hair. "Shit…I…I'm sorry Finn. I don't mean to land this all on you…" He ran out of words and hung his head, cupping his hands with his elbows on his knees.

Finn moved forwards once more, feeling some old sensation rise inside himself. It was his turn to be the leader again, to be the brave one. He walked over to the bench and quietly picked up Blaine's jacket. Living with Kurt was starting to affect him, and he carefully folded it before setting it to one side. "Mate," he said, sliding onto the bench beside Blaine. He left a small gap between them for decency's sake, never forgetting the one week where Kurt had looked at him…_that _way. "It's fine. What happened? Load whatever crap you like onto me."

He saw Blaine's cheek dimple, and hoped he'd smiled. Blaine turned his head slightly to the side. Finn couldn't help but glance down for a second at the still-raw scar which inched from under his gloss-brown hair. "Thanks, man. I know Kurt couldn't ask for a better brother."

Finn smiled. "Yeah, well, he seems to have done pretty well for himself with you too."

Blaine let out a sniff of laughter and turned back to the floor. "Flattery'll get you anywhere…"

For a second Finn tried to come up with something to say, but then Blaine reached up and began to yank on the knot of his tie. "Christ, it's boiling in here." His fingers struggled around the bunched knot, growing more and more aggravated, until finally, with a bark of impatience, he yanked the entire noose as one over his head and went to throw it after his jacket. But Finn stuck out a hand.

"Careful, man. Come on. This isn't you."

Blaine froze, but then began to twist the tie between his hands, the reds and blues spiralling into each other, tighter and tighter. "Yeah, well, I don't really feel too like myself today. Thanks."

Finn bit his lip; he felt like he was back with Kurt in that hospital corridor, caught in the crossfire of unintended anger. He leant back against the panelling, looking down on Blaine's tense, hunched back.

"Where's Kurt?"

Blaine's back tightened even further, but Finn couldn't tell what emotion was behind it. An arm flew out to the side, thrown towards the doors Blaine must have come through. "He's…he's still in there. He has to give his account…his _side_." He spat out the term. "They kept calling it that. Like there was some doubt about it."

"Who did?"

"The defence guy."

"They were questioning you?"

"Yeah."

Selfish panic began to build inside of Finn. Was he going to have to go through the same thing later? But he also grew anxious for Kurt. What were they asking him? What were they trying to twist?

"But…but how can they do that? I mean, the guy was caught red handed. I saw him. He was going to kill Puck. Hell, he tried to kill me." Finn's voice faded at the truth of the words. "How can they even be _defending _him? What are they trying to prove?"

Blaine was silent. But then he slid upright, closing his eyes against the wall.

"They're trying to portray him as 'mentallyunstable'. They're trying to get him off on being crazy, _insane_, and saying that Puck drove him over the edge."

Finn shook his head in disbelief. "No way. No way."

Blaine swallowed, tears flowing back into his eyes and choking his throat. His head began to pound, as if a vice was being tightened around it. "And they said that I was the only one who could prove otherwise."

"What?"

"They…they said that…that everything he'd done in the choir room only proved their case…and that I was the only one that could have possibly seen him differently…"

Finn mouthed wordlessly at the horror of it. "Bu…bu…but didn't Kurt see him?"

Blaine leaned into his hands, pressing them to his head until it hurt even more. He couldn't think, couldn't bear it. "I don't know." He muttered. Tears began to dribble down his fingers as he dug his fists into his eyes. "But…Fuck, Finn," He exclaimed the words like a prayer, begging. "I…I can't remember. And…and if I can't remember, then what's the point? What's the damn point?" He leapt up onto his feet, slamming his twisted tie into the marble floor with a cry. "What's the fucking point? The guy almost kills me," He was properly shouting, the first time Finn had seen him lose control. "He breaks my head open, and…and I can't remember whether he did it with…with a smirk or a cackle…so he gets off? Where's the fucking justice?" He paused, his anger finding no real outlet except the echoing halls. Finn stayed sitting, numb at the betrayal the adult world had forced upon them. Blaine's chest rose and fell, tears peppering his tieless white shirt. "You know the worst thing?" His voice was measured, distilled to clean fury and hatred. "You know what it made me think? He must be mad. Because how could someone who wasn't insane even think about doing something like that?"

Finn had no words.

Blaine threw up his hands and turned full circle in anger. "God!" The movement made the blood rush to his head and dark circles popped in his vision. He staggered slightly. Finn reached out an arm instinctively, and Blaine caught hold of it, steadying himself. Slowly, he shuffled back to the bench.

"I…I can't go back in there, Finn." His voice had quietened, settled into a terrified hush. "I can't. _He_'s there. Right there; all blank and lifeless. Right at the front."

"But you have to." Finn hated the pressure and betrayal in his words. "Blaine; if you're the only one who can finish this…" The terrible verdict dried up in his mouth.

Blaine looked up at him with terrible pleading eyes. He still clung to Finn's arm. "No. No. Finn; come on. I told you…I told everybody…I can't remember."

Finn tried to consider some incredibly deep advice, or some inspiring guidance, but his brain stopped functioning with the fear in Blaine's eyes. Gosh; he knew now why Kurt was in so deep. "Alright…okay…" They needed some new focus; some new way to tackle this.

But then the door to their left, which Blaine had come through, jumped open and an agitated middle aged man, head to toe in a suit just like them, pushed himself through. Finn could hear a hushed babble of voices coming from the room behind him, and the man himself was leaning backwards, finishing a conversation with someone over his shoulder.

"…yeah, I'll…no, no. Stay there. I'll sort it out, Mrs Anderson."

Finn saw Blaine sniff and straighten up at the appearance of the man. He still hadn't looked at or acknowledged his two observers.

But then he turned and closed the door with a click, shutting away the noise. A half smile formed effortlessly on his face, and he turned to face them. "Blai…" But he faltered, awkwardly double-taking when he saw Finn, his small eyes growing angry.

"Blaine? I told you, you're not to talk to anyone. What are you playing at?"

Blaine turned back to his knees.

"If you violate the protocol of a respite, they could have you thrown out of the hearing. Do you understand?"

Finn almost saw the heart to argue leaving him. He spoke up instead, his voice louder and angrier than he intended; this man must be something to do with the case.

"What the hell's going on? Where do those dicks get off with thinking they can claim this whole thing as some sort of mental episode?"

The man's face darkened. He spoke slowly and heavily.

"Blaine? Who the hell is this?"

Finn had opened his mouth to throw the question back, but before he could Blaine had mumbled, "Finn…"

The suited man's narrow eyes flicked up to look him over. "Finn? Finn Hudson?"

"That's right." Said Finn. "And who the hell are you? How do you know who I am?"

"I'm the lawyer for this goddamn whole case, son. So if you don't mind, you'll watch your mouth."

Finn looked at him incredulously. "You?"

"Me. Don't gush with so much admiration. What's Blaine said to you?"

"Just…just that they're trying to force the whole thing to look like this schizo fit. And that they're pining it all on him..." He saw Blaine sink deeper into himself.

The lawyer moved forwards. Finn saw his arm quiver, as if he was tempted to put it out onto Blaine's shoulder.

"Yeah. Well, that's as maybe, but we're not going to let them get away with this bull."

Blaine's head rocked up slightly. His voice shook. "Mr…Mr Chambers…I, I can't go back in there…"

"Blaine, you have too."

"I can't."

"Blaine, five minutes is all the rest I can get you without breaking up the entire day."

"But…but I can't face them again."

The lawyer ran his fingers through his hair in agitation. "Alright…alright…" He pressed his fist to his forehead and began to pace. Something about his movements made Finn wonder whether this was genuine concern, or simply a well oiled act. "What if…what if we…no, that won't work, not if they want to frame you as the only witness…so we…press the judge for lenience on account of the stress," he waved his hand expressively, addressing the corridor, "The ordeal, that you've been put through. That means you look sad, Blaine. Tear up if you can, just like before." The boy's head nodded in shame. "And we ask that their questioning be adjourned."

Blaine suddenly looked up hopefully. "Stopped?"

"At least for now."

Blaine sniffed. Finn looked at him carefully, and then spoke up. He didn't like the calculating tone he was hearing. "So what happens now?"

The lawyer rounded on him. "Now?"

"Yeah."

"Alright. I'll let you know what happens. Blaine and I walk back into that courtroom and try and salvage this case, so that it doesn't fall to shit before it's even begun. And you; you're gonna turn right around and walk to the other side of the building and make sure someone sees you. You're gonna build an alibi. You're gonna forget anything you've heard here; you're gonna forget you were even here. Clear enough?"

Finn was ready to punch the guy. Who was he to say anything? He'd never even met him before? "Excuse me?" He saw Blaine flinch at the raised voices. Pitifully, the boy bent down and retrieved his tie, putting it on like a child trying to placate two warring parents.

Chambers lowered his voice to an ominous whisper. "You heard me. Do you need me to sit you on my lap and explain, or are you going to do as you are told?"

Blaine looked pitifully up at Finn, and for a moment he thought the lawyer had twisted him under his thumb. But then Finn realised it wasn't him Blaine was looking at. No; having finished his tie, he was turning to his jacket. Finn turned to pass it to him, but before he could lay his hands on it, Mr Chambers had seized it and passed it over. Finn's hands froze and balled into fists.

"Why don't you let him do things for himself, huh?"

"Why don't you?"

Finn shook his head in disbelief; this guy was unbelievable.

"Because weirdly enough, I'm trying to help; which is obviously not you're motive."

"Sure it isn't. Pardon me, Finn, if I seem to care a little less about cuddling you both up and wrapping you in cotton wool and saying everything'll be just fantastic. Because I happen to care just the teensiest bit more about sending that son-of-a to jail for as long as possible, whatever the cost. And I thought you would too."

Blaine mutely stretched into his jacket. Finn was silent. The anger behind them had made the lawyer's words ring true, but he was still unconvinced. Mr Chambers broke their eye contact first and turned back towards the door, ushering Blaine up from the bench. He ignored Finn.

"Ok, Blaine? Just follow my lead, alright? You're not gonna have to do anything you don't feel perfectly comfortable with. And make sure the jury see that you're not comfortable with it; understand?"

Blaine just shuffled forwards. With a hand on the handle of the heavy wooden door, Chambers turned back to Finn, almost as an afterthought.

"Go, Finn. Please. I'm not trying to lie, or cheat you. It's for the best; just do what I said." He began to pull on the door but then stopped. "Oh, and, don't do this again, there's a good man?"

Finn snorted and turned on his heel. Whatever.

A voice floated over his shoulder. "And I'll see you later. You'll get your chance."


	35. Light

Kurt shut the back door to the house delicately with the toe of his boot, dangling a plate of biscuits in one hand, balancing a tray of tea, coffee and steaming hot chocolate on the other. Slowly he turned into the gold evening light, wincing as the smallest drop of milk escaped the swaying jug, and smiled bashfully at the awkward silence which greeted him. Without speaking he walked forwards and slid the tray onto a low table in the centre of a circle of odd assembled chairs, placing the biscuits beside it.

"Everybody help themselves," He made an effort to sound as light and happy as possible, springing back from the table into the ring of chairs. "There's more inside if anyone wants any." When nobody made a move he bent and passed the plate of biscuits to Mike. "Please." Grudgingly and silently the plate moved around the circle. Kurt watched as Quinn broke one in half and began to nibble at a corner self-consciously. Finn engulfed three into his hand and then balanced them on his knee, one on top of the other, crumbs tumbling down his jeans and through the slats of the porch. Slowly, Rachel slipped out from where she lay under Finn's arms and slid to her knees to pour herself a coffee. Silently she looked up and carefully shook the pot, looking around the circle to see if anyone also wanted one. Sam and Santana's eyes met hers, and she kept pouring.

With a sigh, Kurt rocked on his heels and pressed his hands together. "So…" He looked round the circle once more. Where had their life and energy gone? Santana took an offered cup and saucer from Rachel; Sam did the same. They both began to sip quietly. Kurt's face fell in disappointment and he looked purposefully at Finn. Finn blinked back as if to say, _what? _

Kurt stretched his fingers in agitation, but then checked himself. Why was he so nervous? So jumpy? Was it because Blaine wasn't here? Because this was the first time he'd been properly alone with his friends in…in a long time?

"Come on guys; we've got Nationals in a week. We're going to New York." It didn't take any effort for his voice to rise into a squeak of excitement. Tina caught his eye but then turned away. "What's wrong with all of you?"

Finn shifted awkwardly in his chair. "Kurt, come on man, don't push it."

"Don't push what?"

Santana flicked her head up. She couldn't help her tongue. "The huge elephant missing from the room. And it's pint sized calf."

"What?" He really didn't understand. And now they were all looking at him. Finn spoke up again.

"What do you expect us to talk about, Kurt?" His voice went up a notch in anger and he didn't try to check it. Kurt's sugary mood was beginning to get under his skin. "We can't talk about the trial; we've barely talked about what happened…at all. And…and without Puck and Lauren we don't even have enough people to qualify for Nationals. Puck's not even been in school since the trial started. We're back to square one."

Kurt ran the pad of his thumb over his smooth, clean nails. Wow; how had he forgotten all of this? In the few short days since his own part in the trial had ended, well…he'd just pushed all that pain out of his head. But now he saw it reflected in Finn's eyes, and on the faces of everyone else. Whose turn had it been today? He knew he couldn't ask. Finn had to go back on Friday. Blaine…well…it depended. Kurt physically felt his emotions settle to the level of his friends. He sank into a vacant part of the wicker swing seat beside Mercedes and Sam.

Finn shifted again, now ashamed at the change his words had caused in his brother's expression. "Look, we don't blame you for trying, Kurt." He waved his hands at the table. "It's all really good of you. It's just…just…"

* * *

><p>"You know you don't have to do this right now…you're probably not allowed to by some rule anyway…"<p>

Puck slid his hand out of Lauren's and wiped it on his jeans; it was slippery with nervous sweat. But he placed his other on the car's door handle defiantly.

"No, no, I have to. I really want to. I just...I just want to say hi to them both; they've both done so much for me."

She smiled at him, puckering her lips in that way that always got him.

"You know something, Puckerman? I like brave you. It makes a change."

Puck smiled too. Damn, she knew how to twist him. "Well, get used to it."

Lauren raised her eyebrows above her glasses. "Ooo; cocky too now, are we?"

Puck bit on the inside of his cheek to stop himself grinning; he couldn't give her the satisfaction. But she smirked and chuckled anyway. Puck looked at her profile in the evening sunlight that was streaming through the window. Against the green leafy trees and white houses, which shone through the window, she looked pretty special. He leant over to punch her playfully on the shoulder, but then planted a kiss on her cheek.

"Just…just, thanks for coming."

She paused for a second, but then shrugged. "No problem."Quickly, before she could blush, Lauren slapped her hands down onto the steering wheel. "But are we gonna sit here all night, or are you gonna get out of my car?"

Puck smiled once more. "Alright, alright." He pushed on the door and pulled himself out into the cool evening. He edged forwards onto the sidewalk, mentally rechecking the house number on the mailbox. Yeah, they were in the right place. He swallowed dryly. Lauren slipped her arm through his and pulled him forwards down the path to the front door. They climbed the steps and she rang the bell.

"You know," She whispered in his ear, as the sound of grating wooden chairs drifted through an open window, "It's weird, but I have kinda missed Glee club." A hazy silhouette appeared in the glass of the door. Lauren lowered her voice further. "But you tell anyone that and you won't sit down for a week."

* * *

><p>"I dunno…I guess I've always just liked both…" Rachel's voice drifted through Kurt's closed eyes.<p>

"Really? Most people have a favourite."

"I know, but not me, I guess. I like tea in the morning, and coffee at night, but that can change. Plus it's not that great for my voice, so sometimes I'll go without it for a while."

Brittany's voice chimed up. "Coffee makes me sleepy."

Kurt sighed and ground his fingers into his closed eyes. Had there ever been a more mind-numbing conversation? Slowly he opened his closed lids, checking the time on his phone. Ten to nine. Should he just end this now and admit defeat? He looked slowly around the circle. Mike was slowly trying to form of house of cards out of the remaining biscuits, and most of them were watching him, entranced with boredom. Quinn was sitting on the floor, leaning back against the side of Artie's chair, eyes closed as his had been. Tina gave a huge yawn, only half hidden behind her hand as she caught his eyes. Kurt sighed again and flipped his cell in his hands. What would Blaine be doing now? His mom had taken him home that morning; home, a huge aching forty-five minute drive away that seemed further than the moon at this moment. Kurt clicked his phone into life, smiling as that gorgeous face appeared as his background; the two of them, curled on one of the ancient benches outside of the Dalton Dining Hall, smiling in the sun. He remembered Jeff snatching his phone to take the picture, making some joke about them looking cute enough to eat. It had only been a day or so after they'd gone public with everything; and looking at that photo now, it seemed like a lifetime ago.

But Kurt could still smile. Something in his mind, some amazing part of himself, had already tidied away the painful memories of the past month, squashing them into some dark corner and letting happiness swell to fill the gap that remained. Even when Blaine had crumpled under the questioning of the trial, or when he'd had to face it himself…even in those dark times, any fear had only lasted a moment. Because Kurt had realised all he needed to do was to look at Blaine, see that beautiful face and the painful scar, and he would be true to his word of all those days ago in the hospital: he would not take Blaine for granted. And in doing so, he found he just couldn't be sad.

As Mike's tower of biscuits collapsed with a round of hollow laughter, he glanced at the glowing clock again. Five minutes to. Would Blaine still be awake? Kurt knew his mom had been insistent about him getting rest over the last few days, probably rightly so, but Kurt still had an overwhelming urge to call him. Just to hear his voice. Physically holding himself back, Kurt forced his fingers instead to tap the message icon. One text couldn't hurt, could it? And he'd get it in the morning if he was asleep. Kurt stared at the blank box, wondering how to sum everything up. He knew Blaine had worried about the consequences of getting them all together as a group again, and now Kurt could see he'd been right, but he didn't want to tell him that; didn't want to disappoint him, or make him nervous, and he knew Blaine would find some adorable way to blame himself for the problems they were having. No, he had to say something different. His fingers began to glide across the screen.

_'Wish you were here. I love you. Xxxx'_

Send.

Kurt smiled once more as their picture reappeared on the screen. Then his head snapped up and he quickly shoved the phone away as the back door swung open. Carole stood there, looking nervous. She looked around the circle, her eyes lingering on Finn and Kurt, then she stepped forwards. Kurt thought he saw something move behind her in the doorway.

"Boys, there's some people here to see you."

Kurt slid his legs off the seat. Rachel attempted to surreptitiously remove her hand from Finn's knee, and he quickly stood up to hide the movement from his mother, banging his knee against the low coffee table, rattling the empty cups. "Wh...ow...is it?"

Carole turned over her shoulder for a second and Kurt saw her whisper something. Who could it be? His heart jumped at the thought that it could be Blaine; but why would Carole have said 'some people'? Quickly he pulled his cell back out of his pocket and glanced at the screen. No reply. That could mean anything. But then Kurt registered a change in the atmosphere around him; a sharp intake of breath and a sudden refocusing of attentions. He looked back up. Standing there, hardly outside the doorframe, were Lauren and Puck.

Finn, unlike Kurt, had been watching the whole time, and had seen Puck emerge from behind his mom, eyes fixed to the floor, holding tight to Lauren's hand. But Finn could sense something about him; something different from the last time he'd seen him in school, almost a week ago. He seemed harder, more solid; not the weakened thing that had returned after the whole…event. But this wasn't the old Puck either. Finn blinked, trying to figure it out, but then realised with a start that he was still standing, gazing vacantly into Lauren's puzzled face. He jumped, crashing against the table once more.

"Oh…hi…Hi, guys. Um…" He looked around himself and then moved forwards to leave his chair empty. At the same time his mom edged forwards between Kurt and Mike with an anxious look, and rescued her china from the table, sweeping it up and away onto the tray and disappearing back through the door. Best to leave them alone for the moment.

Puck edged forwards to let Carole by him, and looked up and around the group.

"Hey guys. Sorry to just drop in, but…" His voice faded away.

"Do you…do you wanna sit down?"

Finn watched Lauren look back at Puck; his eyes were wide for a moment, but then he nodded.

"Yeah, thanks." Puck let go of her hand so that she could cross the circle and slide into the vacant chair, sitting stiffly, not wanting to look as though she'd assumed she was welcome. All the same, as she sat, Lauren quickly picked a biscuit from the plate that had been forgotten by Finn's mom.

Finn and Puck watched each other awkwardly, still standing. Slowly, Finn moved so that he too faced into the circle. For some reason he found himself looking at Kurt, looking for help. Kurt caught his eye and swallowed.

"Uh, it's good to see you guys. Did you get my messages about…this?" He waved his hand at the poor excuse for a gathering, but at the same time used it as an excuse to check his phone again. No, still no reply. Blaine must be asleep.

"Yeah; yeah, thanks."

Finn looked at Puck. Even when he spoke in familiar monosyllables in was clear that something had changed; it was like he was protected, as if he had some suit of armour or something that gave him…not confidence, it wasn't that. Puck had always had that…before. No this was something different. It was like he was…steeled. Noah caught his watching eyes, but turned slightly away, addressing the whole group.

"So, so what've you done so far? What have we missed?" His eyes ran full circle and ended on Kurt, the host.

Kurt bit his lip in consideration. The truth? "Nothing; we haven't even started really…"

Rachel rocked up onto her knees and interrupted him, "But, now that you guys are here, well, we're all here. So we can practice!" Finn smiled at the cute joy in her voice.

Santana leaned back over her chair to give Puck a smirk and drawl: "Oh yay! Thanks guys; because I was just beginning to die from lack of glee-ing out."

Puck looked at Lauren with a spark in his eye, remembering her comment on the steps, a smile almost breaking on his lips, but she edged her glasses down her nose and mimed crushing something with her hand, mouthing _"One-whole-week"_. He gulped; clapping his hands together instead, and moving forwards to push Santana back to facing the others, ignoring her.

"Alright, let's do it."

* * *

><p>Finn found the transformation in the group weirdly unsettling; that just by being completely reunited outside of school, they'd slotted back into the dynamic they'd lost weeks ago, just so easily. He had to give credit to Kurt; he'd never believed it would work and had actually tried to stop him inviting everyone, but God did it feel good to just laugh and joke again. No-one brought up anything about the last few weeks as they drilled their set list, all crowding around Sam's guitar, which eventually passed to Puck as Sam's wrist began to hurt. But even that…or the memories it might have brought…didn't seem to be able to stop them. Finn smiled as he saw again the hilarity of Sam having to stop every three words to shout chord patterns, and Puck only just getting there by the end of the phrase, before he had to change again. Musically, it might have ranked pretty low, but in terms of being what they needed, it was perfect.<p>

He heard his name, and he looked up from where he was helping Kurt wash up the cups and plates they'd used. Rachel was pointing to him, but then bent and whispered something to Mercedes and Tina. They looked up at him, with an overwhelmingly female expression that meant nothing to Finn. He laughed and went back to drying up. After they'd finished the practice it had been almost completely dark, and everyone had just tumbled back into the house, driving Burt and his mom upstairs, filling the kitchen and grabbing snacks. Strange how being happy again made you suddenly hungry. And so that was where they were sat now, at almost eleven.

"Hey, Kurt?" Artie's voice floated over the chatter as he swivelled from where he he sat at the head of the table.

Kurt half turned his chin from the basin and flicked it in recognition, keeping his hands, in their rubber gloves, in the soapy water. "Uh hu?"

"How's Blaine?"

Finn jolted out of his musings, and heard a slight hush go round behind him. But Kurt didn't react, well at least not in the way he expected. Instead, from his side view, Finn saw a secret smile stretch over Kurt's lips. His brother's eyes flicked sideways, knowing Finn was there, and the smile was tucked away again, but not before it reached his eyes.

"He's fine. Good, actually. He would have been here, but his mom took him home today; Dalton said there was no point in him coming back for just the last week of the semester. But he told me to say hi to you all from him."

"Wait; they finish next week? But we've got almost a month to go?" It was Santana.

"Yeah; private schools, huh? Who'd leave them?" Kurt smiled again, he couldn't help himself. He caught Finn's eyes and saw the understanding spread. Finn smiled too. They were ok.

There was a shuffling behind them and then Puck's voice, asking tentatively, as worried about breaking the atmosphere as any of them. "Was…was he ok after…after the other day?" Again Finn froze; he had stuck to the word of the lawyer guy, Mr Chambers, even if he did think the guy was a dick, and hadn't told Kurt about his conversation with Blaine in the hallway. He'd figured that, as Kurt had been in the court anyway, he probably understood more about it than Finn did; but keeping the secret still made him uneasy. Kurt passed the last glass to Finn and turned to face the room, pulling the gloves slowly from his hands.

"Yeah; I mean…" He saw the eyes of all the others on him, and realised only he, Puck and Lauren understood what Noah was referring to. "Well, once he came back, and they…changed it, then he seemed fine. He was a bit quiet afterwards, but it didn't last that long." Finn wondered how much of that was true; from the Blaine he'd seen in the corridor, crying with rage and fear, he imagined not much. He turned into the room to look at Kurt's face, trying to work his own into a suitable look of concern and confusion.

Across the room Puck just nodded, trying to abandon the awkward moment. Kurt made an odd movement; half smile, half shrug, and turned to put the gloves in the cupboard underneath the sink.

Tina broke the silence, glancing at her watch. "Well, I guess we sh…"

_Ccrraaassshhh._

Someone screamed and Kurt recoiled, raming his head into the underside of counter and tumbling to the side. Finn stared at his hands, heart pounding; the glass had just…just disappeared from between his fingers. Bright shards of it now littered the floor. There was a moment when no one breathed or moved. Tina had plastered her hand over her mouth, Rachel had frozen with her eyes pressed closed, and Puck's were impossibly wide, one arm held half extended, as if he could have caught the glass from where he was.

The sound; the shattering, jarring crash, pierced their memories. Kurt let out a low moan, clasping at the top of his head, and then his memories surfaced in turn. He backed against the cupboard, away from the glass, and froze. There was another beat of silence.

"Wow."

Finn didn't know who'd spoken; it sounded like one of the girls, but he was still staring at the empty towel in his hands, the shock of the sudden sound still catapulting through his head. _'Wow'_ was right…he was right back in that place, right back under the piano, hearing those…sounds echo down the corridors.

Slowly, one by one, they came back to the present.

"Hell, Kurt, are you ok?" Mercedes said, rising off her chair and treading over the broken glass to crouch by his side.

"Yeah…yeah, I'm fine." He stammered, sliding slowly upright against the sideboard, hand held gingerly against his head. "I'm not cut or anything, I don't think." He swapped hands to check, and brushed at his trousers. "No, no, I'm ok."

Finn let his check relax with a huff of air. "Shoot, guys, I'm so sorry. I d…I didn't…I'm just too clumsy."

There was a general murmur of "Don't worry…don't be silly…not your fault." Puck gently pushed himself up from the table and used the hand that he was still holding out to point at the floor.

"Finn, is there a brush or something for…?"

"What? Oh…oh yeah." He threw the towel onto the draining board and passed Kurt to head into the hallway. Tiny pieces of the glass had flown to even the doorframe, and it squealed as he drew it open and passed through. Puck took a step forward, and stood awkwardly behind Lauren, waiting to be useful.

Kurt looked over everyone's faces, and saw what he had imagined a number of times before; what it had been like for them to hear the shots. His head throbbed and he blinked. He sniffed. "I guess we're never going to be as over it as we think we are."

Rachel caught his eye and looked away. Sam nodded worriedly. "That was so quick. I was right back there. And it's just like that night; all of us here again…"

Tina realised she was still holding back her sleeve to look at her watch. She picked up Mike's hand from the table and opened her mouth to speak, but Rachel's voice stopped her. Her eyes brimmed with tears as she spoke, staring solemnly at her closed hands.

"I…I'm sorry guys; it was my stupid rehearsal that put us all in that position in the first place…"

Kurt saw Puck visibly flinch at the searching of a still-fresh scar. He mumbled something intelligible; but Kurt caught fragments: "C'mon…always…my…blame." Whatever he'd said made Lauren slide her hand up into his. Finn pushed the door back open, grating it once again over the glass, brush in hand. But he wasn't looking at the glass; instead he gazed in slight shock and repulsion at Rachel. He'd heard what she'd said and couldn't believe it.

Santana also looked at Rachel; she would have liked to kick the sweatered excuse for a nose whilst she was down, but she couldn't bring herself to. "Well, maybe if we'd tried a bit harder before…I mean, we might not have needed the extra rehearsal…"

Wanting to avoid the jerking conversation, Puck took his hand from Lauren's and stepped forwards, reaching to take the brush from Finn, but before he could, Finn had walked forwards, past Kurt and Mercedes and over the crunching broken glass, to face them all.

"What do you think you're doing?"

There was silence once more. He looked straight at Rachel.

"Why would you say something like that? Why would you blame yourself?"

"Finn…" She faltered, feeling the weight of his gaze on her. "It was just…just because of the glass." She waved a hand at the still shimmering floor. "And the memories…and it's been on my mind the whole time, but I never got to say it to everyone, and I had to…"

"No, Rachel."

She stopped, stunned.

"You didn't have to tell anyone, because it's rubbish. This whole…thing. It's no one's fault here. No one's." He looked pointedly at Puck, then noticed his outstretched hand and passed the brush over. "It never was and it never could be. We have to stop putting all this on our own shoulders, guys." His eyes moved once over the room. "You saw how much better we were tonight; even better than how we used to be, yeah? We need to use that; grow from this and turn it on itself. Follow Puck's example and be stronger for it. That way, we win." He stopped. All eyes were on him now, and he couldn't help but wonder where the hell that speech had come from. With a small look, Puck gave him a unguarded smile, and turned to begin to sweep up the fragments of glass. He felt Kurt place a hand on his arm for a moment, and then turn to find something for the shards to be thrown out in. Tina and Mike stood up and began to say their goodbyes, as did Artie and the others. Finn breathed out as the clouds over them dissipated.

As the leavers moved towards the door, Puck straightened up and leant on the brush, hands clasped on the top of the handle.

"Guys, can I say something?"

He glanced at Kurt and Lauren, both standing beside him, helping to clear the mess.

"Whatever happened, or whatever might happen with this whole thing and with who gets blamed, and for how long, or for what…" He glanced at Finn. He knew he was being overly vague, and that they all knew he meant the trial. "I just wanna say…it wasn't Glee Club that got me into this. Not by a long way." Lauren rested her hand on his arm. Puck looked at her and smiled, sadly at first but then growing in warmth. "My dad couldn't stand Glee club. He let me know that. He'd much rather I'd been a dumb jock, just like him. But you guys…" His voice caught and snagged. "You…" He scratched at the side of his head. "You've never got me into anything bad." He glanced at Quinn and then held Lauren's hand. "It's always been good. So…so I just wanted to say that, like Finn said, you guys did nothing; none of you got us into this. But you got…you pulled me out of it…and thanks for that."

* * *

><p>Twenty minutes later, after everyone had gone and he was alone in his room, Kurt set his phone on his bedside table and plugged it in to charge. The screen lit up for a second and Kurt saw something; a small red dot. Inside himself, his heart lept, with all the heat and happiness of that first <em>courage<em>. He snapped the message open, and green and white message bubbles filled the screen, half overflowing with xxxxxxx's and smileys. He found his one; '_Wish you were here_'. But now, underneath it he read:

'_Just watch as it all works out. You guys are family; you'll get it right. I loooove you too, my knight in shining armour xoxo_'

Kurt couldn't contain his smile, and he collapsed backwards onto the bed, phone and charging cable clasped to his chest. But even as he did so, the screen lit once more, and he sat up against his pillows.

_'P.S. Now I'm awake and alone in the dark in bed. Wish you were here?'_

* * *

><p><strong>Hey everybody :) So...I've finished my exams :O! So I am once again at your bidding! But I feel really out of practice :( this chapter took sooo long to come together, it was unreal, even despite the fact that I was craving writing all the time I was revising! But hope you like it :)<strong>

**And for anyone who was wondering, the quotes in the last chapter (the Starkid ones, remember? No? Don't worry, it was agggeeeesss ago!) well, the Starship one was meant to be the whole lap thing, because dontcha know the whole world just looks a little better from ontop of a lap ;) and the AVPM one was the whole 'falls to shit' bit - the point of Spiderman Three :P but you guys just turned out too good for me and found completely awesome different ones! lol**

**(Also a heads up that I have changed the name of the Lawyer from the previous chapter!)**

**Til next time, xxx**


	36. Surprise

"So how are the kids doing?"

Emma rested her coffee delicately on the table, and swiftly dabbed at the rim of the mug with a quickly materializing and vanishing wipe. She took a slow dainty sip, widening her eyes at Will over the brim of her coffee.

"Um…I guess they're fine. Sorta. They don't really bring it to Glee Club anymore…"

Emma's neatly pencilled eyebrows creased.

"Bring what?"

"Their problems, I guess."

"But you think they're still dealing with…it?"

As she placed her mug on the table and began to swill it gently, Will picked up his and began to drink. Emma thought he looked tired; more tired than she had seen him in a very long time, even through everything with Terri. But maybe she just hadn't been watching. Will took another sip of his steaming coffee, watching her watch him.

"How can they not be? I mean, I'm still dealing with it, and I wasn't even in there."

Emma considered the implications of his answer, but decided now was not the time to delve deeper.

"Well, what _are_ they like in Glee Club?"

Again Will had to consider before answering. He thought back over their rehearsal of just that afternoon.

"I…I dunno." He was forced to admit. "They seem closer, like…like they've grown through their shared experience, but it feels like a house of cards, Emma. They're all leaning on one another, but if one of them goes under then they'll all go."

Emma paused, expecting more, but nothing was forthcoming.

"What's happening with the trial?" She tried.

Will looked up at her large innocent eyes, framed by her auburn hair. He sighed.

"Um…Kurt went at the beginning of the week, with Dave and Blaine I think. Puck's been there basically the whole time. And Finn missed today to go. But I think they've been told they can't talk about it, because whenever the chatter moves anywhere near it, they change direction."

Emma nodded. "Well, that's what you'd expect, isn't it? You don't think they'd just casually chat about this?"

Will looked almost shocked. "But, but you'd think they'd at least gossip about it? I mean, it's such a huge thing, and…"

"Yeah," said Emma, stepping in. "It is a huge thing. So can't you see why they wouldn't just 'gossip' about it? This is the biggest thing, the scariest thing, that's ever happened to these kids, Will. So they can't treat it as just another high school rumour or something." She was surprised at the force behind her voice, but she meant what she said.

Will didn't answer her. He was surprised and a little scared at her disagreement, and wanted to avoid an argument. Instead he took up his coffee again, whilst Emma watched him. Finally he approached from a different angle.

"Then…ok, they don't want to treat it as just another throwaway thing, but why won't they come and sing about it? That's what we always used to do, Emma…with Quinn and Finn and Puck, the whole baby thing, with Kurt and his dad, with religion, acceptance, fears; all the big things. The kids used to bring them into their songs, and we'd get through it that way. Why won't they do that this time?"

Emma had to admit she didn't know. She hadn't run into one of the Glee kids since this whole thing had started, and this was the first time Will had approached her for coffee in weeks. But still, reasons for their reluctance travelled over her mind, many of them echoing her own experiences with fear and, she had to admit it, denial. But then a thought struck her.

"Maybe just try waiting until after Nationals?"

She waited as Will's eyes tightened, and thought she should explain herself.

"Let them concentrate on that for the moment, just as a little distraction from everything else. It's only 'til the end of next week. They love their singing, Will, and they're going to put everything they can into this, and imagine what it would do for them if they could win? Or even just feel like they've done their best? If you say that they're really...together, at the moment, then use that. I'm sure that when they want to deal with this they will, and when that time comes, they'll come to you. But for the moment Will, if you force them into anything, then...then it might be you who topples the house of cards..."

She ran out of words. He was looking at her oddly, and she couldn't tell if he was still angry. She didn't want them to fight, not after they'd just regained each other as friends, but even so she knew it would be a hundred times worse if she stood back and watched as he made some misguided attempt to help. Glee club was the best part of Will's life now, she knew that, and he couldn't be allowed to harm that, because he'd only end up hurting himself.

He slowly swallowed another mouthful of coffee and pursed his lips. Emma's stomach clenched; he was still angry. Who was she to try and tell him what to do? She didn't spend half the time with these kids that he did, and still she thought she knew better? She'd completely overstepped. She shot her mouth open to apologise, but before she could, he nodded.

"I...I guess you're right."

Emma closed her open mouth. He leaned forwards with a slight sigh, looking achingly tired and touched her hand, held against the hot ceramic mug.

"Thanks."

His fingers flicked away again, before Emma had even really registered the touch, and he leaned back into his chair, missing her stifled gasp of surprise.

"I don't know what I'd do without you."

* * *

><p>Kurt sat alone at a side table in the Lima Bean, furiously scribbling away at the French notes in front of him. Somehow, with everything that had happened, and all the rush of Nationals, his Junior Finals had snuck up on him out of nowhere. He dropped his pen down onto the papers, stretching his fingers, and ran his hand along his chin, freezing in terror when he thought he felt the slightest bump of an emerging pimple. Stress! What it could do to a person…<p>

It seemed like he had an ever growing mountain of work to catch up on, not to mention revision. One by one his teachers had forgotten their lenience and compassion of those first few weeks, to climb back on his back with vengeance. He sighed, delving into his bag for his grammar textbook. Luckily, even in the short few months he'd spent at Dalton, his work ethic had been pushed through the roof. He had no idea how Blaine kept it up every single day, but for now he was glad that a five hour assignment session no longer daunted him.

As he pulled his book out of his bag and flicked it open, his eyes caught on the chair opposite. It felt so strange to be here without Blaine; that chair looked so empty. Where was the second medium drip on the table, with his name even written on the cup because they were such regular customers? Or the comforting, exciting tap of that foot against his leg under the table? Or those soft hands to play with? That soft, beautiful voice making him laugh…

Kurt sighed and reached into his pocket for his iPod. Music would make him concentrate. He couldn't let himself get distracted, however pleasurable the distraction might be. He had to get all this finished so that he would have nothing that could possibly disrupt his week in New York. Even at the thought his heart glowed with excitement. He was going on a plane for the first time in his life; he'd get to see Broadway, maybe even go for breakfast at Tiffany's, it was going to be amazing in every single possible Sex-in-the-City fabulous way. Glancing around at the other customers as he fitted his headphones, he tried hard to suppress a yelp of giddy happiness.

* * *

><p>An hour passed, with Kurt only breaking to jump up and refresh his coffee order. He smiled at the friendly barista as she once again handed him his change; he was in a good mood. There was a happy chatter all around him, the sun was shining outside, it was the first day of the weekend, he was going to New York, and he'd managed about a third of his work already. At this rate he might even be able to give himself some of tomorrow off before they flew out on Monday, and that meant he might be able to see Blaine. His smile grew even wider.<p>

As he set his cup down amongst his work he saw a pale glow coming from the inside of his jacket, stretched across the back of his chair. He fished his phone out of his pocket. And smiled again. It was Blaine. Quietly and quickly he slid into his chair, crossing his legs and flicking the message open.

'What you doing? xoxo'

Kurt's lip curled into an unwitting grin. He knew Blaine's game; he'd told him his plans over the phone just last night, he was obviously just trying to be annoying. Gorgeously, captivatingly, totally endearingly annoying. He tapped and opened a reply.

'Shush! Working I told you yesterday. So stop distracting me! xxx'

Kurt clicked his phone to locked, but couldn't help laying it down on the table next to his iPod. He picked up his pen once more and tried to figure out how to continue the sentence he'd half begun:

_"Un rêveur est celui qui ne peut trouver son chemin au clair de lune, et sa punition, c'est qu'il voit l'aube avant que le reste du monde." Vous voyez-vous comme un rêveur?_

_Oui, je suis un rêveur, parce que j'ai un rêve…_

Bleep.

Before him, the screen of his phone lit again. He smirked. Nice try Blaine, but this time he was definitely going to wait at least five minutes before looking at it. Quickly, as if to prove this to himself, Kurt covered his phone with his copy of Huck Finn. No more distractions.

_Mon rêve…My dream has been the same since I was a little boy. Since I can remember…_

How did you say 'I have always wanted to be'? _J'ai toujours voulu_? _J'ai toujours désiré être_? Kurt reached for his book again. One single thought of 'Blaine would know…' flashed across his mind. He settled on the first.

_J'ai toujours voulu…I have always wanted to be…happy. And from a very early age I found that I was happiest when I was singing and performing. I used to…_

Kurt grappled with the constructions, trying to fit in as many complex sentences as he could, with all his tenses. Slowly the paragraph took shape, although somehow he wasn't really happy with it. It was odd, having to express your deepest desires to a faceless examiner; how had he managed to sound so insincere? Should he write that his wish was to become fluent in French, or that dreamers were impractical idealists who couldn't cope with reality? What did they want to hear?

On queue his phone bleeped again, weakly from below the thick text. Kurt smiled but sighed. Have some patience, Blaine, he just needed to finish this last sentence.

…_And I hope that one day I will be able to achieve this._

A nice expression of a wish; if nothing else he knew his teacher would be fooled into giving him a decent grade. Another bleep.

"Alright, alright…"

Kurt muttered under his breath, shuffling the finished test together and reaching to drop it into his bag. But before he could even put the cap back on his pen there was a second beep, then a third. A phone call? Really? Quickly, Kurt glanced around, scanning the tables around him to see if anyone would mind him answering. Behind him a couple sat, making out on the sofas. Kurt decided he wasn't going to be the conspicuous one, and picked the book from on top of his cell. It was Blaine.

"Hello?"

"Hi!"

Kurt, once more, couldn't stop his heart from glowing at the sound of that voice. His imagination placed Blaine in his room, sitting on a bed that Kurt had never seen, surrounded by the musical posters and closets of blazers that Kurt had dreamt up for him.

"You know you're interrupting me again, don't you? Keep this up and I won't be finished in time to say goodbye tomorrow."

He made sure his voice stayed bright and laughing, but at the same time, he meant the mock threat. He wasn't going to let talking over the phone take the place of being able to see that face, kiss those lips and sit in those arms.

"I know, I know, I know." Blaine garbled, bouncing along the words. "But…did you get my text? You didn't text me back?"

Kurt laughed.

"Yeah, I got it, but I was _working_," He leant on the word. "So I thought you might be able to wait a few minutes! Obviously I was wrong."

"Did you read it?"

"No, not yet. What did it say?"

Kurt thought for one delicious moment that Blaine sounded almost sheepish; rosily embarrassed and excited. What had he put in that message? Was it some impulsive expression of…of something? Less than dapper thoughts crossed his mind.

There was a nervous laugh at the other end of the line.

"Just that…I have a surprise for you."

Kurt bit his lip, colour flushing to his own cheeks. He tried to hide under his hair as a waitress came to collect his empty cup, quickly muttering a thanks. As she moved away he lowered his voice.

"What? What is it? A good surprise?"

"I hope so."

"Tell me!"

There was a lovable cackle.

"Nice try! This is a face to face surprise."

"Blaine!"

An old man to his right, reading a tabloid, shot Kurt a look at his raised voice.

"Blaine!" Kurt hissed again.

There was another laugh, and Kurt thought he heard the sounds of traffic and voices.

"Sorry, darling. My lips are sealed until you open them in person."

Kurt's stomach knotted itself involuntarily. He wanted to say no fair, but it sounded like the fairest thing in the world.

"Well…well, go away then, so I can finish in time for tomorrow without all these distractions."

"Alright, maybe I will…"

As Blaine spoke the couple from the sofa walked past Kurt towards the doors, her hand sliding up and under the back of his shirt as though no one would notice. Kurt saw the old man ogling them. Got to love those double standards. Blaine's sweet voice continued in his ear.

"…but it was your fault for wanting to work in the coffee shop."

Kurt blinked.

"No; it's relaxed, and it reminds me of being at Dalton, so I can work better…wait, how did you know I was here?"

There was the smallest of pauses. Kurt thought he heard the sound of a tinkling bell, and a door swinging shut. Where was Blaine? The man next to him rustled his paper loudly as the couple left, clearly trying to shut him up. Kurt could have given him a few pieces of his mind.

"I…uh, you told me yesterday, don't you remember? And I can hear it in the background." Blaine's tone went back to brisk and joking. "But anyway, if you want to shun me, that's fine. Don't think I'm not used to it." With each word he became more and more melodramatic. "It's not like you haven't abandoned me before, casting me aside for fame and glory. No, no, I'm sure I'll get over it in the week you're spending gallivanting around Soho and Manhattan and Tribeca, and up and down Broadway, with no chance of there being any other gay guys around to usurp me…"

"Shut up." Giggled Kurt.

Blaine's voice switched again, back to its normal warmth. "Alright, but listen. For my sakes, get another coffee, finish up that work, and who knows, maybe I'll see you sooner rather than later."

"Ok, and don't forget my surprise."

"I can't."

Kurt swore he could almost hear Blaine winking.

"Love you."

"Love you too."

Kurt pulled his ear away and put the phone back in his jacket to a righteous nod from the old man. He left the happy grin on his lips and shone it in his face; being the better man.

He picked up his pen once more and pulled out some fresh paper for his next assignment, but now he couldn't concentrate. Stupid Blaine and his stupid surprise. What could it possibly be? A present? Maybe it was something to take with him to NYC, or, and his heart leapt, something for him to do there? Kurt let out a small gasp as one thought came into his mind. Had Blaine got him Broadway tickets? If so, Kurt feared his heart would never recover.

But what if it wasn't? What if it was something completely different? Maybe it was just a CD or a sweater or something. With a second thought, he reached for his phone again; what had Blaine's unopened text said? He popped the message open.

'I have a surprise for you… ;) and no better time for it ;) xoxo'

So that gave no clues; except for the winking faces. Uh oh. Kurt knew there was nothing so ambiguously suggestive, nothing he could read more into that a winking face. Did…did that mean it was an ambiguously suggestive surprise? A physical surprise? What was it that Blaine had said? _'A face to face surprise…my lips are sealed until you open them in person'_?_ 'No better time for it'_? Kurt's stomach rolled as he gazed, wide eyed and unseeingly, into the bright bubbles of text. _That_ kind of surprise? Kurt shivered as he even thought of the word. His inner voice whispered it, almost afraid that someone would hear.

'_Sex?_'

No. No, Blaine wouldn't go there. Not on a whim. Not when he knew how tentative Kurt had been on the subject.

But that whole 'sexy' thing; that had been before the two of them, before there had ever been the possibility of anyone wanting…that, with him. And Kurt couldn't deny that he'd been having, well, _dreams_ about…it. Ever since his dad had given him those damn pamphlets. Kurt's face flushed and his heart threatened to abandon his chest. Those dreams had embarrassed him so much that he'd been scared to look Blaine in the eye the next day; what if he could see it in him? They weren't Kurt; they weren't the sweet, sugary, Broadway romances he'd always fallen for.

But if it was Blaine; really Blaine, physical Blaine, there…right in front of him…

Kurt gasped, realising he'd stopped breathing. But his heart kept pounding. And he realised he wasn't afraid. Not anymore.

With Blaine, it would be ok. More than ok. What had his dad called it, during that oh-so-awkward conversation? _'A wonderful present to yourself'_? Wow. Kurt rubbed his hand over his beetroot cheeks. What a way to say goodbye, Blaine.

With a breath of air and a tinkle of a bell, the door to the shop was pushed open again, breaking Kurt out of his reverie. He stuck out a hand to hold down his stirring papers in the breeze and picked up his pen once more. But he was never going to be able to work now. His brain began shouting ideas and opinions at him. What if he'd made the whole thing up in his head? It wouldn't be the first time. Could he ever show his face again if he made some stupid assumption that was completely the opposite of what Blaine had planned? He reddened again at the thought; oh God, how awful would that be? Kurt Hummel, the closeted sexual predator. Or what if it was what Blaine wanted, but Kurt wasn't good enough? He had no experience, no references, except for a couple of those movies and those stupid pamphlets again. And they made it seem so...practiced, so acquired. He was going to be awful, he knew it.

The door swung shut again, catching one loose sheet which rocketed upwards and caught Kurt full across the face. He pulled it down and scrunched it in frustration. He had to pull himself together; he had no idea what Blaine was going to say, and whatever it was he had to trust his boyfriend. Blaine would have put a lot of thought into whatever it was. Yeah. So pull yourself together, Hummel. Trust. And courage.

He tossed the ball of paper aside purposefully and looked down at his work. Ok; there was his task. Kurt reached down for his bag and pulled out his wallet. He was going to trust Blaine; and what had Blaine said? 'Get another coffee and get that work finished'. He fished out five dollars and stood up, pushing his chair in.

* * *

><p>The queue was longer than it had been previously, and as Kurt waited for what must have been his fourth grande no fat mocha, he checked his watch. It was quarter to one. He'd have to get some lunch soon; was it totally sad to just stay here and get a sandwich? He decided it wasn't, not if it helped him get his work done. The barista turned and placed another steaming mug in front of him.<p>

"Tha…" He began, but before he could finish, she'd placed a second cup beside it; a medium drip with 'Blaine' scribbled on the side. Kurt blinked. Had he made the wrong order? Reverted to autopilot? But surely she knew that it was just him, as it had been for the last three hours…

Before he could reach the end of his thought, a hand slid around his waist, grazing the warm slice of skin between his shirt and his trousers, and a second one reached forward, taking hold of the mysterious mug. Kurt froze in surprise, his hand half extended as the barista grinned back at him. A soft flurry of curls brushed the side of his forehead, and two balmy lips grazed his ear.

"Surprise…" Whispered a sensual voice.

Kurt spun round; almost sending the coffees flying, straight into a bare, embracing pair of arms.

"Woah! Careful." It was Blaine, grinning in the sunlight streaming through the windows. His bright polo shirt shone against his skin, and he smelt heavenly.

"Blai…wha…" Kurt kept blinking, overwhelmed. All his embarrassing thoughts came rushing back to him, flooding to his face and turning it a bright magenta. What was he doing? Why was he here? Now? 'Face to face'? Kurt swallowed. Were they going somewhere? Today? Maybe overnight? He felt lightheaded. "What are you doing here?" He finally managed to gasp.

Blaine beamed absurdly, tapping his foot like a restless dog and running his tongue along the bottom of his gleaming teeth. Kurt tried not to focus on his mouth too much.

"Ok, I'm sorry. But I couldn't wait! I was outside when I called you; I knew you were here."

Kurt struggled with the scrambling words. Blaine had been outside the whole time?

"You…you followed me?"

Blaine blushed rose red and bit his quivering lip.

"Maybe…I wasn't just waiting though; I had to do a little bit of shopping first."

Blaine winked and Kurt's imagination threatened to go into overdrive. Shopping? For what? For _protection_? For some kind of outfit? Is this how it was done? His pupils grew wider and wider. Was he supposed to have understood? To have done something similar?

"For the…the surprise?"

Blaine nodded, up and down, up and down, still grinning like a clown.

"I'm so excited! I can't wait!"

Kurt managed a shuddering, blinking nod.

"C'mon." Said Blaine, linking his arm through Kurt's and pulling him so that he had to scramble for his own coffee. "Let's sit down. I can't wait to talk about it and plan everything." Kurt blanched at the words, but followed, feeling his feet move until he was sliding back into his chair and Blaine was shuffling together his notes in front of him.

"C'mon, lets clear this all up." He laughed again to himself, half wondering why Kurt had that lopsided expression of a rabbit in headlights on his face. "I thought I told you to finish this up; but I could see you through the window. You did absolutely nothing for about five minutes after I called; just sat here! So I thought I better come chivvy you along!"

Kurt said nothing again, and Blaine jumped into his normal chair opposite him, propping his coffee on top of a stack of textbooks. He grinned again, then tried to control himself, then had to grin once more. Kurt felt his foot lightly brushed under the table, then nudged in time with what Blaine was saying. Slowly those toes worked their way from his ankle, driving back his chinos until they almost reached his knee.

"So…" Blaine paused, staring at him with wide starry eyes. "What do you think it is?" He began to slightly bounce in his chair like a toddler. "I'll give you…three guesses."

Kurt swallowed. Three guesses? Was he seriously supposed to say those words out loud?

"Umm…"

Blaine kept bouncing, nodding in prompt.

"Err…"

Blaine clapped his hands together impatiently.

"Come on, I'll give you a clue…it…it involves both of us."

Kurt swallowed again.

"Both of us?"

"Uh hu. Now, come on, you must have some idea! Both of us and…" He began drumming his fingers on the table, in mock imitation of a drum roll. "And two pieces of paper."

"Paper?"

Now Kurt was confused. But Blaine kept nodding like a maniac. Kurt watched as he reached inside his jeans and carefully drew out something white, like an envelope. But with a cheeky giggle, Blaine kept it pressed to the underside of the table.

"No cheating."

Kurt bit his lip and wiped his hands on his trousers. Ok, now or never, he had to go for it.

"You…you and I, are going…" The nodding increased in passion. "Are going to…to go and have…" Kurt chickened out and let his voice lift like a question. He couldn't say it. Not out loud; not in public.

"Adventures!" Blaine interjected, like a little kid, his smile growing wider than Kurt thought was possible. "And so, so, so much fun. I just went and bought a new camera especially for it, and sunglasses; pink of course, and a map…"

He chattered on and on, but Kurt just stared, hearing the list of objects. The whirring cogs of his brain came to an abrupt halt. From somewhere inside his mind, a tiny, high pitched voice spoke up, a memory of his sarcastic self; _'Uh…I don't think he's talking about sex'_.

"…and my mum's fine with it; it was actually partly her suggestion…"

'_Yeah…definitely not sex this time, Kurt…_'

"And I can use some of the compensation money for it…of course the money hasn't actually come yet, but we can afford it for the time being, and it was just such a once in a lifetime opportunity, Kurt…"

Kurt held up his hand, the mist still clearing from his mind. The adrenaline was draining from his system and he was completely lost. Had Blaine bought him something? But it was something for them to do together? And it involved paper?

"Wait, Blaine. Wha…what are you talking about?"

Blaine reached a free hand over the table and brought both of Kurt's frozen palms towards himself.

"Kurt." He said, reaching his other hand up from under the table, the piece of paper held within it, reaching out either side. He placed it in Kurt's limp hands, and Kurt felt that it was light, and saw that it was slightly coloured in waving bands. A strange logo thing glinted at him from one visible corner; then Blaine removed his hand and Kurt saw it in full for the first time.

"Kurt, I'm coming to New York with you."


	37. Beginning

The light of the summer evening sweeps across the surface of the lake, grazing the tree tops and shattering against the statue of The Angel. Water runs from her feet, cascading in silver sheets to the gurgling pool, strewn with flowering lilies and wayward blossom, as family after family and couple after couple glide past, happy, peaceful and content for a single moment amongst the chaos of the city, moving towards the end of the day.

Two people amongst the crowd are still. The figures sit close to each other on the rim of the fountain, the last rays of the sun dancing on their faces, their eyes closed. Each has a hand dangling loosely into the cool waters, fingers drifting and turning in the ripples. Their other hands have found each other, and are inseparably intertwined, hung above the warm mossy stone between them.

"Do you think it's possible to stop time?" One murmurs. "To stay and live in this moment forever?"

The other doesn't respond at once. Instead he sits, allowing the words time to absorb, placing them on top of his collage of the moment. Even if they can't stop time, he is determined to remember everything about this instant. He breathes deeply, cataloguing the smells of the flowers and the water and the people. This is Central Park.

The figure who'd spoken stretches backwards, over the pool, trailing his free hand through the leaves of the lilies, eyes still closed. His back arches so that his head is held closer to a champagne spout of water, the froth and cold flecks peppering his face like sparks, blown by the breeze. He keeps his eyes closed and keeps hold of the other boy's hand. From below his hairline, which ripples in the warm air, emerges a thin train of white and pink; puckered tissue overlain with the ghosts of white sutures.

"It's ironic, don't you think, Kurt?" He has to speak up slightly now to hear himself, over the gurgle of the spring. His voice is fresh and open.

"What is?" Says Kurt, lazily, feeling the movements of the other boy as his hand is dragged slightly backwards over the organic stone. In a single impulse of fluid movement, he slides his hand out and over the surface of the pool, turns and draws his legs up onto the stone, and leans until his head rests, oh so gently, in the other boy's lap. Their entwined hands rest together on his chest. His other lounges on the hot stone alongside him, drying slowly.

"Being here. Did you see what this fountain is supposed to represent?"

A shadowy arrow of ducks flies across the sun and bounces off their closed eyelids. With quacks and splashes they water-ski onto the lake and ruffle to a stop. The second boy opens his eyes to watch them, and then twists ever so slightly to consider the statue, half hidden behind that warm chest, that floating shirt. But what he can see is old, greening, and powerful. Small cherubs dance around a central column. The impressive Angel stands, watching over them.

"Victory?" He offers, gazing up at the face he cannot see, framed by the washed out blueness of the sky, with a slight smile of excitement, thinking of the similar statues they've walked past on the way to this place, and winged emblems, and stamps. "You think it's some sort of sign? A prophesy? No?"

The other boy opens his eyes and considered his view of the underside of the fountain. He could just see a pigeon balancing along the top of one outstretched wing. He understands the confusion after a moment.

"No, no, I didn't mean that. But it could do, I guess. I mean, of course I hope you win…But, what it really is…well, it's called _Bethesda_."

The single word means nothing to Kurt, lying there, but it sounds suitably beautiful and holy from those perfect lips to describe this moment. The two brown eyes above the pool tilt to look down on him, and then, stretching again, the boy, Blaine, straightens up, taking his hand from the water. But he does not dry his. Instead he reaches out, taking Kurt's hand in his damp one, letting the water drip over both their fingers, palm to palm. Edging forwards and curling his knee onto the stone, he bends so that their faces are less than a foot apart, eyes meeting.

"The Angel," His eyes do not move or close as he speaks; he is completely serious and sincere, "is blessing the pool. It's Jerusalem; the Pool of Bethesda." A glistening bead of water falls from their hands. "She's giving the water healing powers."

His listener watches for a moment, then smiles softly. Blaine follows him.

"That's not ironic." Says the second boy. "It's perfect. This whole place is perfect." A clock strikes in the distance. "You're perfect."

There is a moment of serenity. Then the boy with the brown eyes closes them, flicking oh-so-dark lashes, and bends forwards, sliding a hand into the dark brown locks which lie across his knees. As both their eyes stare unblinking, he lifts Kurt's head so gently. They kiss. It is long, deep. Shuddering. Earth shattering. Neither one of them breaks the soft touch, not for minutes, not for hours.

But then the wind blows, tumbling down the terrace, flourishing the leaves on the branches and catching their hair. It blows warm against their faces and their lips, and seems to drive them an inch apart, only for them to open and gaze into each other's eyes, wordlessly.

Finally,

"I love you."

"I love you."

The sun, so valiant in fighting its way through the pillars of the buildings all around them, finally disappears over the top most branches of the park.

The darker haired boy waits for a moment, pressing a finger to his lips delicately in contemplation, and then slowly lowers Kurt's head. Kurt swears he feels those legs tremble beneath him. Blaine slides his hand further down Kurt's waiting back, and lifts him, effortlessly, into sitting, one arm still arranged at his shoulders. But then he spins, and stands, reaching a hand back down to his waiting partner.

"Come on. There's something else I want to show you."

"Something else? Another surprise?" Says Kurt. He takes the offered hand and sways on it playfully as they bend through the fading crowds away from the fountain, twirling, dancing. As they pass, he sees people turn to glance, to watch them; but for once he feels no shyness. The city passes no judgement on them; holds no ignorance or prejudice. He wants to jump and shout; at the top of his lungs. But instead he settles for a gasp of pleasure and a ridiculous grin. And the people watching them can see exactly the thoughts of their minds, as the light dissolves into gold.

"Tell me."

A smile flicks at the corner of Blaine's mouth as they cross up onto the Terrace and start down the Mall.

"Have I not taught you anything in these past days? I am very good at keeping my secrets."

He swings Kurt by his hand and twirls him into his arms to kiss his neck and soft shoulders as they walk, leaving one hand draped at his waist as if it was simplest unit of adoration in the world.

"You told me last time."

Kurt thrills silently at the pull of those hands against his body. And Blaine smiles, but softly and secretly, and to himself, as if in memory of some perfect moment. A horse and cart pulls gently past them, its old wheels rumbling in the shale. Ahead of them late runners mingle with the homeward bound business men, making happy plans with loved ones as they ramble. Children cross their vision, chasing together to the limitless world of the playground.

"Last time isn't this time."

They walk in serene silence, until, like a storm unfolding, they can hear the travel of the roads and the sounds of the city which holds them. They reach the outside world; turn right, towards the hidden sea, and Kurt thinks he can feel the ground melting away beneath his feet. On the pavements that surround them, darkening from silver to pewter, the streetlamps begin to flicker into life, bathing them in a fresh golden light. Kurt feels his hand pressed as they slide through a countless stream of visored residents, rushing for familiarity. A whisper passes his ear.

"And this time, well, it's not a secret. Not my secret. I just want to share it with you."

"Share what?"

Kurt whispers back, conscious of some unspoken bond of confidence between them and the crowd. They were the strangers here, blundering the tourist trail; but the crowd had swelled around them and taken them for its own, they were not the outcasts.

"A moment."

* * *

><p>Kurt sits alone on a bench, imagining the entirety of the Atlantic Ocean stretching before him. Instead, all he has is the Hudson River, but the dark bars of water lap so gradually, so methodically, that they seem to intuitively have all the gravitas of the ocean ahead of them. Blaine has wandered, distracted for a single moment by something which has caught his eye and his imagination. So Kurt has meandered on alone, captivated by the beauty of the city around him. How can it possibly open so majestically into nature like this? The titanic figures of the ships and cruisers sway in front of him, like living sisters of the buildings reflected in their portholes. The freshness of the ocean, tainted by the perfume of oil and labour, fills his senses and flashes against his face. Rushing from the park, they've just managed to arrive in time for the sun to set, and now Kurt understands why Blaine meant it wasn't a secret. This is a shared peace; shared with all those of this brilliant new city who just happened to glance out of their windows at this moment, to glimpse the scarlet sky. He twists momentarily in his seat, searching the retiring figures for that one perfect outline. Blaine is going to miss it; where has he gone? A breeze ripples the path of walkers, and suddenly Kurt can smell roses, a beautiful fragrance blossoming it seems from within the very city walls. He can see the setting sun reflected a hundredfold in the crystal windows of the buildings and even the echoed light seems warm and comforting.<p>

A hand sits quietly between his shoulder blades, as if supporting him, encouraging him to drink in the view. The smell of the roses grows sweeter.

"Don't you feel at home?"

Kurt nods towards the buildings; the thousands of homes and lives.

"I don't think I've ever been anywhere more perfect. It's so far from Ohio."

He feels Blaine slide next to him on the bench, their bodies fitting alongside each other in a harmony that he cannot explain. He hears the sound of rustling paper, and something softer; an ever so soft music of velvet on velvet, of snow landing on snow.

"Kurt?"

He twists in his seat, drawing his legs alongside Blaine's. He's about to lean against his shoulder, to close his eyes and drift in the beautiful moment, but suddenly something is before him. Blaine's hands are filled by a twist of paper, blossoming outwards from his chest, brushing and folding under his chin. A dozen roses, scarlet and satin perfect.

"These are for you."

For a moment Kurt is speechless. It's a gesture he would never have thought of. It's too kind, too beautiful and generous.

"Blaine…"

But Blaine lifts one hand from the bouquet, and silences Kurt with a pale finger. With the other hand he passes the flowers over.

"Shush."

Blaine places his free hands over Kurt's and they hold the weight of the blossoms together.

"Let's just sit; ok? And look. And take in. I can't get over that we're really here."

He slides back against the bench, still holding Kurt's hands. The evening light turns bronze on their faces.

"Thank you, Blaine."

Kurt whispers to the view.

"Don't mention it."

* * *

><p>Bleep. Bleep.<p>

"Mm goma 'ill ooever 'at is…"

Mumbles Kurt, failing to find the strength to break the magnetic pull of Blaine's scarlet lips. But it is Blaine who raises his free hand from the bed covers and pushes gently at Kurt's cheeks with both sets of fingers; he runs them back into the ever silky hair, and tangles them in knots of his own making.

"Go."

He whispers as their mouths break apart. Kurt's feverishly bright eyes are centimetres from his own. The darkness and intensity of the brown irises shocks him. Have they always been like that? Or is it only the work of the weak light of the bedside lamp and the ethereal gleam of the ever-glowing city drifting through the window? The phone trills once more, resting forgotten somewhere near the door. Kurt passes him a beseeching look through his eyes, so Blaine answers with a playful, teasing nudge at his shoulder.

"Go on. Otherwise they're only going to keep calling. What if it's one of the others? What if they're worried about you?"

Kurt raises his eyebrows, but slides his knees off the bed all the same.

"They know what I'm doing."

Blaine smirks, a childish grin creeping into his lips and flushing them. It's his turn to raise his dark, thick, almost triangular brows; did they know that _this_ was what Kurt had planned for the evening? Kurt catches on and smiles himself, blush flaring in his milky skin even in the half light of the dusky hotel room. He stands and takes a step towards the desk, where his bag and jacket, and flowers, lie forgotten.

"Alright…not exactly _what_ I'm doing. But they know I'm with you. They knew we were going to do some exploring."

Again Blaine can't hide the smile that the words inspire. Kurt's hand hovers over the handset as he throws another look back at his beautiful boyfriend, curled into the crumpled covers, shirt half unbuttoned.

"Grow up."

Blaine sweetly slips a hand over his tingling lips, as Kurt laughs and glances at the phone before placing it against his ear.

"Hello, Rachel?"

Blaine can hear a high pitched reply, muffled into senselessness. Kurt glances back at him, triggered by something he's being asked, so Blaine twists his face into seriousness, playing at covering his glowing, battered chest with the soft blankets. He wonders if Kurt realises he blinks so much when he's on the phone; he can see himself watching in the same way from behind the windows of the coffee shop, and the rapid fluttering of those dark, dark eyelashes, how they make him look so innocently flustered. Blaine lets go of the rumpled covers, sliding himself back against the meagre pillows, letting them take his weight as he did so often in the past month. But this bed is so, so different. This room, this place. There is energy in the very air, and not only because of the every changing, ever constant stream of music threading through shaded window, of cars and people and buses and signs and life. No. Blaine can feel life vibrating through even the bowed mattress. He reaches up and runs his fingers along the length of that badge of his own half-death; small soft quills of hair are starting to colonise its edges, and now his fingers are brushed by feather curls as they walk the odd numbness. He has never felt more alive. More happy. More thankful. His hand falls back to the sheets, and he resolves to just watch. To drink in and indulge himself in what he has found.

"Uh hu…"

Kurt has turned on his heel, playing with the back of the humble motel chair, ears unsure about what he is hearing. He lets his eyes wander over a generic red landscape print, hanging above the small TV. Bright green trees clash against it and a purple path winds over something like Tuscan hills. Rachel's voice hums on, fast and excited. She has news for him; they all do. Where is he? When is he coming back to the hotel? He does realise what time it is, doesn't he? And that they have Nationals in two days? She pauses for breath, and Kurt catches voices in the background, talking quickly, and one elated cheer. He blinks.

"Um…"

She jumps back in again. It doesn't matter; she's going to have to tell him now. Kurt has turned to face the square of the window, trying to figure out the time. How lost in all this has he become, how much blissful time has slipped through his careless fingers as his mind has floated? But then he freezes, his gaze fixing on the single lamp which throws shadows around him. And Blaine stiffens too, because he sees too much in Kurt's silence, too much thrown across his face at the words of the now barely audible speaker. There is a long, long pause in the littleness of the room. Then a breath from Kurt's unmoving mouth.

"You're serious? Completely sure?"

Blaine rises up onto his knees, shrugging his shirt back onto his shoulder. He sees a flash of Kurt's eyes as he moves; they're shocked, as if he'd forgotten...something. Then they rest on his face, and the two boys are looking at each other, level, blinking. Kurt's lips flicker together and apart, his rose tongue brushing along their lengths.

"Okay. Okay…wow."

His voice is soft and stilted. Blaine edges forwards once more, but is stopped by another blinding flash from Kurt. But then his eyes drop from Blaine's to the carpeted floor, faltering and unclear.

"When?"

A pause for a reply.

"And…and it's over?"

Blaine stumbles over the relief in Kurt's words; his voice is choked with it. Kurt's head swings to look at him; they're only an arm's length apart now, in a room which seems to have grown infinitely darker and smaller. And Kurt knows he has tears in his eyes once more, but they glisten, daring to tumble down his cheeks for freedom. And as they do, his cheeks blossom in a gasp of laughter.

"Yeah…yeah…"

He swallows, forcing at the unyielding fibres of his throat.

"Of course I'll tell him."

He smiles once more, fully, blinking at the bright silver pearls in his eyes.

"Okay. And…and, Rachel? Say…say…give him a hug from me?"

His hand shudders, as if he's about to hang up, but in the silence Blaine hears that faraway voice once more, now almost audibly close. He catches a few last words; _'…back…tonight?'_ Kurt's eyes widen and run up and down the figure in front of him. He glances across the room, taking in the desk, the door, the bathroom, the bed. His lips part, but for a second there is no sound. Then they stretch, ever so slowly, into a small smile, serious, sincere, and meant only for the boy in front of him.

"No. No, I won't. Bye, Rachel."

The phone slides down in his hand, and he pauses for another second, giving the room another glance. Then he turns and paces to place the phone on the desk, beside his roses. He slides it into mute.

"Kurt?"

Blaine slides his foot off the bed and reaches forward. He's worried, terrified even, by the twin tracks of tears on Kurt's skin. What had happened? What had Rachel said?

"Kurt, what is it?"

His other foot follows after. Kurt is still facing away from him, those slight shoulders sliding ever so gently up and down. Blaine takes another step forwards.

"Kurt? Are they ok? Is…is it your dad?"

He sees Kurt's head twitch slightly at the words; but inches before his hands can cradle those arms, he spins, leaning back against the desk. There are more tears on his cheeks, but his eyes are bright, fiercely bright. They meet Blaine's, level and longing.

"It's over, Blaine."

"What?"

Kurt takes a breath, and then slides fluidly onto the end of the bed, collapsing with a sigh. Blaine follows him, stretching an arm around his back. It's hot and trembles at the touch.

"Kurt, what's over?"

"Everything. All these last weeks."

Blaine's breath quickens; what has happened? He reaches up to stroke at Kurt's forehead. Is it hot, or is that just his own hand? Kurt watches the hand as Blaine takes hold of one of his and presses it. He presses back. His mind is so clear; everything so simple and easy. He sees Blaine looking at him, fear in his eyes, his creased brow melting into that garish pleat. But there's no more reason to be afraid. Blaine's hand at his back begins to rub circles.

"Kurt, baby, what is it? Tell me; it'll be all right. I'll make it all right. Just tell me."

"Blaine…"

That hand, those fingers. They've found their way back into his hair now, tumbling down his neck. Ripples of happiness, stronger than anything he's ever been able to express, run through Kurt, dashing inside his heart, rebounding.

"He's gone. Him."

"Who?"

Kurt shudders from shear release. But the name still hurts his mouth.

"Him…Noah's dad."

It's Blaine's turn to falter. He forgets his gentle rhythm of pressing Kurt's palm. Instead his fingers just hold on; shuddering.

"What?"

Kurt turns, sliding himself into Blaine's shoulder, slipping around him, knotting them into one. Blaine lets his arms follow, but his chest is rigid. Suddenly breathing is not so easy. What is Kurt saying? The voice rises up to his set ears from out of his collar.

"Rachel said…Puck got a phone call this evening, a really long one, from his mom. The…the judge threw out their madness argument…said something like his lack of remorse meant that even if he was ill, he deserved to be removed from society…so they had no other defence…"

Both boys stiffen into each other. Something of Kurt's release begins to seep into Blaine's fingers. Kurt glances up, and rises from his embrace to kiss at Blaine's fixed jaw line. Those deep, deep eyes glance down on his.

"Blaine…Blaine…it only took the jury an hour…an hour to find him guilty…and he's gone…away…for as long as good."

"Gone?"

The simple word fills Blaine's mind, and he is still once more as Kurt rises and kisses his open lips and hands.

"Gone, Blaine. Gone. Gone. Gone. It's over. We won."

Blaine is swept by weakness. He sways into Kurt's arms. His head is pounding; fever striking down the length of his scar. The entire body of his head seems too light; floating on his shoulders like it might be knocked away at the slightest movement. Kurt gathers him in, folding around all his fragility. And suddenly Blaine understands what the sensation is; all the pain, the worry, the fear of the last month, Kurt has taken it away in just so many words. He feels himself turn his gasping breathing into a deep coughing laugh, and then tears stream into his eyes, vanishing away into Kurt's shirt. He feels Kurt's hands in his hair, weaving and lacing. They stroke his head ever so softly, like a memory. A whisper begins, just behind his ear.

"We did it, Blaine."

"We did it…"

Blaine repeats, confiding the truth in the softest folds of Kurt's chest.

"No more pain."

"No."

"Only us."

"Us."

"And the future."

"Whatever we want it to be."

They pause for a second in the cocoon of safety.

"Blaine?"

"Mmm?"

"What do we want it to be?"

Blaine gives out on his tears with a happy sob and a sniff.

"What?"

"Our future?"

He reaches up his own hands and tucks them behind Kurt's back, feeding one hand under his loose shirt, feeling the heat and beat of his skin. They hold the position. Kurt closes his eyes. His mind is baffled by such happiness; it keeps forgetting and then remembering the reason behind it. Through his closed eyelids, Blaine's voice floats like a sunset, perfect, understood, eternal.

"New York. Here. This is it, Kurt. We've started our future. Is anywhere more perfect?"

Kurt nods into his hair.

"I hoped you'd say that."

"Even if it's just this motel room forever."

"Even if we never find real work."

"Even if we don't even get into college."

"We'll become famous singing garbage men."

"Street sweepers."

"Pigeon chasers."

"We'll stand outside of theatres, on hunger strike, until they have to let us in."

"And then storm the stage and steal the limelight."

"Walk to LA to see the Tony's."

"And the Oscars."

"And then walk all the way back."

They both giggle. Blaine allows his free head to float and squares himself on the foot of the bed. Pulling back, he holds Kurt at arms' length, gazing at him.

"Sounds good to me."

Kurt smiles.

"It could sound a little better."

Blaine droops his lips.

"I dunno. It sounds pretty great to me. So free."

Kurt reaches out and pinches that appled cheek, dappled by the streetlights.

"I wouldn't mind a little comfort after a while. And maybe a wardrobe."

Blaine giggles, smoothing invisible creases from Kurt's trouser knees. Winking, he works his hands up to Kurt's thin waist. His voice still shudders with emotion. _They've done it. It's over._

"Alright. I'll carry you a wardrobe. And I'll allow you…three Broadway cameos a year? How does that sound?"

Kurt smiles.

"Better."

They wait, holding each other in the gathered darkness. Neither has managed to grasp what has happened. Not fully. Snatches of words fly around in Kurt's head; of the words Rachel had used, the sounds in the background…How had the others taken it? How had Puck taken it? He should really phone his dad, or would the police have done that? Thought after thought tumbles through his mind, none managing to seize his concentration for more than a sweet second. In Blaine's eyes he sees the same process.

Finally he manages to twist to look at the blinking red clock of the TV. It's almost eleven; so late so quickly? It'll be earlier in Ohio, but still, his dad will probably be in bed. And if Finn hadn't called…well, he didn't want to get him into trouble. Blaine's hands tighten gently at his waist.

"What are you thinking about?"

Kurt gives a tiny smile, looking back into those eyes.

"Nothing. Just…just whether my dad will know already."

"Mmm," Blaine mumbles. "I should probably call my mom."

There is silence again, an unbroken understanding that these things can wait. Somewhere within the hotel voices begin, moving along a hallway, laughing and joyful. Blaine thinks again about how particular this city makes him feel, but also how it does the same for every person within it, every visitor. He can see himself living here; see Kurt living here, so easily. It would be like slipping into a costume you have worn each day beneath your clothes, and finally being able to show it to the world.

He tightens his hands again, without looking down at them, and feels the gorgeous pull of Kurt's body, resisting his fingertips. How adult all this feels. How mature and right. He smiles into Kurt's dark eyes and leans to kiss him. Elation is bubbling within him for this day; for how perfect this day has been. Invincibility sweeps him. Their life is theirs once more.

Kurt is thinking too; about the last words Rachel spoke to him. About the smell of the roses, drifting between the sterile scent of the room and the wonderful warmth of Blaine's body as they kiss. _Are you coming back to the hotel tonight?_ He'd said no. No. He would stay here, in the comfort of Blaine's arms. Forever. But he knows there's something else behind his answer; some other desire. Kurt can feel it, like a physical particle in his heart of hearts, needing release.

As he thinks, they mumble "I love you" in turn in the darkness, instinctively.

It's there. And Kurt knows he's ready for it. And that this moment is as perfect as any. In the city that never sleeps, he does not want to simple sleep over. Not tonight.

In the silence following their kiss, he feels Blaine slide slightly away from him, settling back into the bed. That face smiles, and an urge rushes through Kurt, to kiss it again and again and again until he has no strength left. But no; he stops himself. There's a bigger prize. Have courage, Kurt. This is the moment; your present to each other.

Kurt's voice drops. His eyes gloss even darker; his face is sincere as an icon.

"Blaine, I want our future to start now."

Blaine smiles, not quite reading the look.

"It has started, silly. That's what we just said."

Kurt slides his feet up beneath him on the soft bed, sinking slowly into it, but keeping his eyes level. He can feel himself gathering together, like a diver above a tropical waterfall, knowing that in the end the jump is inconsequential in comparison to the beauty of the fall.

"But…"

How to phrase it?

"But…I want a perfect start."

Blaine's eyebrows crinkle lovingly.

"Kurt?"

Kurt's heart has floated into his mouth and his tongue is as thick and heavy as anything. His head feels both too light with heady anticipation and leaden with old half remembered fears. He moves his hands, sliding them onto the backs of Blaine's outstretched, ghostly fingers, pulling the weight from his waist and pushing them apart. Then for a second he pauses, considering the move; both of them there, palm to palm, in some holy votive scene.

"Blaine, I want…"

It sounds so demanding, so forceful. What if it's not what he wants? But those eyes…those hands…that body… He must want it too; at some internal level. He knows twice the amount Kurt does, has loved twice as many people; can't he want it at least half as much? But then Kurt understands: the first move is his to make. Blaine has left it to him to decide the time and place. It is his hands hovering over the blank chess pieces of their future. Blaine will follow him this time.

"I want you."

The three words hold in the silence, expressed, unretractable. Kurt feels a blow of exhilaration ripple through his burning heart. He's done it; he's made the leap.

And Blaine is watching him, closely, closer, a pause coming over the dancing flames of his eyes. There is no more misunderstanding.

"Kurt?"

It's the same word, the same simple name repeated, spoken by those lips for the thousandth time, but suddenly there's something more behind it; a deep, threatening, bracing vulnerability, shared through their still touching fingertips.

Cold fire courses through Kurt, and he fights the urge to shiver against it. So many new sensations. But his heart is still urging him on, telling him this is the perfection he wants, the perfection they deserve. He leans into their palmers' hold, and kisses those lips, hanging from them as Blaine reaches forwards, drawn after him.

"Kurt…"

Again the name runs from Blaine's mouth; no longer a question, now laced with the desire of Kurt's heart.

"Blaine…"

Kurt has closed his eyes; all he wants is this rainbow raging river of gorgeous emotions. But even inside his darkness he can see Blaine; that image that means everything, that drives the entire current. Their fingers run down inside each other, linking their palms, clasping as they return to each other. All thoughts of what to do, how to act, have scattered from Kurt's mind; his hand drifts with nature to the side of Blaine's face, into that perfect hair. Blaine's freed fingers find their way back to his waist, running along his chest, dangerously close to his heart, leaving a lightning trail. Then, as one, their lips and grazing tongues break apart, reaching for air, but it is only for a second, and they fall back together. Between them, they exchange in turn mumbled, half eaten snatches of each others' names. Nothing else fills their minds.

"Kurt…"

Blaine moans in the darkness, overcome by the force of his own relief, attacked by happiness and pleasure and excitement.

"Blaine…"

Now Kurt has found the use of his own body, and he frees his other hand, his knees shuffling higher on the bed, his fingers searching out the last remaining buttons of Blaine's whitest cotton shirt in the twilight.

"Kurt…"

The half-cry comes again, and Kurt takes it as a rallying ratification. He slips his other hand from Blaine's dusty stubbled cheek to hasten his fumbling fantastic task. Blaine's firm, hot, bristling chest keeps knocking against the smooth backs of his fingers as he goes, button by button, each touch knocking with the force of a hundred hammers at his being.

"No…Kurt…"

The moan rings again, breaking with a flash of hot breath between their scarlet lips, and a smallest flicker of anxiety ripples through Kurt's ecstasy. Is he doing it wrong? Badly? Rudely? A mad thought rushes to the front of his mind; Blaine has half pulled back from his mouth, should he try and use his teeth? Could he even manage something that intricate?

"No…"

Kurt's heart stops, as Blaine's fumbling hands cling round his own and push him back. Blaine takes a shuddering, limping crawl backwards over the mountainous covers. His face is blood red, apart from the ice white sliver threading from his hairline, black curls scattered right and left. He pants for a second, still holding Kurt's stiff hands within his own.

"No…Kurt…I…wha…"

He breathes, his grip slowly loosening. He looks down, composes himself as best he can, and then back up into Kurt's wide, scared eyes.

"Kurt…you're sure? You're sure about this?"

Kurt nods; sureness rushes through him.

"More than anything."

"Right now?"

"Now."

He watches as Blaine takes another breath. Oh, God, Kurt thinks. He's not ready. He doesn't want it. Not right now. There must be something wrong.

But then Blaine glances up once more, releasing Kurt's hands until they are lying apart in his own. Something flashes through his eyes, a mixture of the same wonder, exhilaration and sweet nervousness that flows in Kurt. Suddenly Kurt remembers that for all the books and pamphlets and internet, this is Blaine's first time too.

"Ok."

He seems to sigh, and slides a foot of the bed.

"But if we…if we…We're going to do this properly."

He stands up, and Kurt lets his hands fall onto the softened covers, in the warm cove left behind. Blaine moves quickly, turning to a half opened suitcase and pulling out a sweater, dragging it over his head without bothering to refasten the buttons of his billowing shirt, letting the collar bunch and slip underneath the soft wool. Then he half-twists, turning in confusion, searching out his wallet. It's there; next to Kurt's bag, and the flowers. He pulls out his room key and a bunch of dollars and thrusts them together down into his pocket.

"Blaine, what…?"

Kurt manages. Blaine has slipped into his shoes, and lays a hand on the door handle. But Kurt's voice seems to jolt through him. He spins back to face him, recrossing the short space as he talks.

"Protection, Kurt."

The word collides with Kurt's ear and throws him. A stream of images from health brochures flash in front of his eyes.

"But, but…"

He flounders; he knows he's thought about this at some point, worked out the ins and outs. But it's all flown out the window with a single moment of reality. Blaine has stopped in front of him now, the most cherishing expression gracing his face.

"Kurt, I'm not about to hurt you. I would never let myself do that. I couldn't live with myself if I did."

"But…but we…do we need…?"

Kurt knows he's thoroughly embarrassing himself now. But he _can_ remember thinking about this; it's both of their first times, so they can't be carrying anything, right? So they don't need to use those…things. Those things designed for a different kind of couple, for stopping something that could never happen between them. Blaine takes hold of his shoulders, pressing the side of his face to his chest. Kurt can no longer see his eyes, but his cheek blisters with the _thud-thud_ of Blaine's thundering heart.

"Well, no, I guess not. But, Kurt, start as you mean to go on, yeah? And it's not just sexual infections that you can catch…"

Now Kurt is glad Blaine can't see his face. He feels a kiss float against the top of his head.

"I'll be five minutes. No more."

There's a pause; Blaine's hands don't leave his back. A voice whispers down to Kurt's hidden face.

"Thank you."

Kurt feels himself unwrapped, and hears the door open and close. As soon as the sound of Blaine's feet reaches the corridor, he hears them step into a run, pounding away down the distant steps.

The normal Kurt would probably have charged into the bathroom to redo his hair or matt out his complexion, but not this time. He might have tried to arrange himself sexily on the bed, torn into his roses and scattered the petals, dishevelled his clothes, maybe taken some off, but not this time. Instead he holds himself perfectly still, and lets the seconds tick past, trying to think of nothing. He watches the shadows on the floor and looks at how they play across the waved ridges of the bed. He's facing away from the door, and he doesn't change that. The ticking of some clock that he hadn't registered before is magnified in the silence, interspersed by random sounds from within the shell of the hotel; the whir of the lifts, the echo of footsteps, the lonely voice of a distant television. And always the never ending lullaby of the city.

Kurt feels, with heightened peace and pleasure, the heat and weight of his own body, preparing for its audition for the adult world, on the adult stage. He feels the pressures of the mattress against his legs, beginning to numb them. He wants to lie down on the bed, to stretch out; but not yet. He knows there is tiredness within him; it's been a long day, a long gorgeous day to be remembered for good. But he can't be tired yet; not just yet. One more thing to do. One more crowning glory.

He thinks he can hear footsteps reaching back up the distant stairwell. For a few seconds they are ghostly, spectral, mythical; is his mind just playing tricks on him? Or his heart? But then they solidify into hard fact, hard sound. He hears the feet coming running to the very top of the stairs; and there they pause. Then they turn, slowly, measuring out the distance, walking over the space in between. And there is a noise at the door, and it slides slowly open. Kurt is still facing the window; still able to count the bright squares of other lives beyond. He hears a sound on the carpet by the door; maybe Blaine taking off his shoes again. In the corner of his eye he sees the sweater returned onto the lid of the suitcase.

Then there are hands on him once more; hands which entwine around his shoulders, filling in the spaces until soft arms run against the sides of his neck and a hot chest falls against his back. The hands find the base of his shirt, and draw it up over his head, releasing him, holding him in a moment of blackness before he is released once more into the vision of the room. Kurt spins, or is spun; he is no longer sure. And then he's opening that last button on Blaine's shirt. They kiss. And crawl backwards, together, over the bed. Kurt is lost; but found. They keep changing places. And kissing. Again and again. It is slow, and perfect, and tantalising. Blaine's hands slide to the waist of his trousers, but hesitate, asking. And Kurt smiles, and laughs for Blaine. And reaches out and pulls them closer, even more together, guiding their hands. And smiles again. They keep kissing, fumbling at each other's faces with feather soft lips, as one by one they slip, together, out of the last confines of their clothes. And the light has stopped growing weaker around them.

* * *

><p>The sun has risen, and is glowing through space between the warm curtains they had forgotten to close when Kurt at last slips from a dream into cloudy reality. He lies, for hours, for minutes, in a cocoon of ignorant bliss, drifting in warmth, in some half remembered peace that he cannot account for. Slowly his eyelids drift apart, and when the flares of sunlight dissipate, he can see Blaine's face, haloed against the glossy pillow, his hair scattered and tumbling. It feels like the most natural sight in the world; the vision he's been waiting his whole life to wake inside. There's no scar to be seen. In sleep they have drifted slightly apart, a foot of space crossed by their arms which still rest across each other, rising and falling with their breath. Kurt does not try to close the gap; he cannot move for fear of breaking the moment. Instead he simply lies, and looks.<p>

Slowly the events of the evening before drift back to him, strengthening with the morning sunlight, like echoing whispers still held by the room. He can see Blaine's bare chest, half exposed by the fall of the covers, and can feel his own fingers resting on warm, unclothed skin. Beyond his rising shoulder, Kurt can glimpse a corner of Blaine's jeans, suspended in their fall by catching on the bedside lamp. And inside his head, beyond the echoes of his own name and Blaine's, beyond the melodies of the night, he finds snippets of Rachel's voice returning to him. Suddenly he finds himself wondering if Dave knows yet. Surely he must. Kurt hopes it makes him happy.

Blaine snuffles in his sleep, rolling slightly, rocking and sinking his face further into the light pillow, away from the billows of dawn light that lie fully across Kurt's face. His fingers wander on Kurt's bare back for a long moment, sensing and surveying in his darkness. Then, simply, they stiffen, curling into his skin. His lips split slowly apart, and he moans ever so softly; an intelligible sound, like a newborn baby. Kurt watches in awe, but then understands as Blaine's fingers fumble at his side once more. He lifts his bare weight from the mattress and inches closer, sliding his arm over and around the coolness of his one exposed shoulder. He finds himself cooing and soothing, shaping long whistling hushes, until Blaine settles once more on the pillows, a tiny smile glinting along his parted lips.

"Shush, Blaine…I'm here…sleep…"

He chooses a stray curl from near where his hand rests and draws it across his fingers, the darkness of it glowing against his pale skin. Some part of him feels he should be singing instead, a lullaby for the beauty all around him. But for once Kurt can't think of a song. Instead he hums, to himself, any notes that sweep into his head, carried into the room on the cool morning air. And as he hums he lays his face next to Blaine's, feeling their breath mingling between them on the bright sheets, and slowly, ever so slowly, as the lullaby fills his head, the room begins to darken once more.

* * *

><p>As he awakes a second time, Kurt is immediately aware that the room is different. His closed eyes are shadowed, with no red glow of sunlight. He lifts his heavy lids, and Blaine's sweet face is no longer across from his. Instead all he can see is his own hand, lying in a pool of crumpled blanket, in shadows thrown by the freshly drawn curtains. His hand clenches into the sheets, and slowly he twists up from the mattress, onto his elbows. From the clarity of his dream, the room seems overcast. He puts a palm to his face and rubs it across his eyes, willing everything to go back to making sense.<p>

"I was so afraid you'd wake up whilst I was gone."

His voice is golden and sweet and fortifying, like poured honey. Kurt blinks. And there is Blaine, sitting in the desk chair, at the foot of the bed, dressed again in that same white shirt and indigo jeans, his forearms bare and outstretched, his hair still askew.

"You were mumbling the strangest things."

A smile lights and dances across his face. Is he holding something in his hands? Kurt has to blink again. Yes. A small brown paper bag. And suddenly Kurt can smell something new and sweet.

"Like what?"

He pushes down through his elbows and shuffles himself back onto the billowing pillows, sinking into them, pulling the covers with him.

"Just, just single words and names and thoughts."

Blaine's cheeks dimple in again.

"And then you told me very directly that you would never walk to the Oscars, however poor we were."

"I did?"

Kurt smiles too, so light and happy, raising his eyebrows, but inwardly pleased with the honesty of his sleeping self. Blaine grins and nods. They look at each other across the room. Kurt is slowly becoming more aware of his own nakedness as Blaine sits there in his comfortable clothes.

"What time is it?"

He eventually manages; using the question as an excuse to stretch to gather his trousers from the floor, pretending to pat them in search of his phone.

"Almost eight."

Blaine stands, placing the bag neatly in one hand as he reaches to lift Kurt's slightly creased shirt from the edge of the bed, passing it silently to him. Kurt takes it and slides into it; it feels soft, yielding and tender after its night unfolded and unironed.

"Where did you go?"

He nods to the brown bag as his arms glide into the sleeves.

"To get you some breakfast."

Kurt glows. It's like a beautiful movie.

"Just me?"

Blaine walks round and slides back onto the bed, refilling his old impression, stretching his legs on top of the blankets.

"Well…I thought you might be open to sharing."

He passes the bag over, and Kurt can smell fresh coffee and pastries. Then he laughs; there are two of everything, two tumblers, two croissants, two bagels.

"Obviously you weren't sure?"

Blaine chuckles as Kurt begins spreading the mini picnic on top of napkins between them.

"Well, it was only when I got down there I realised I've never had breakfast with you. And I don't know what you like, or how hungry you'd be…"

Kurt crumbles a bagel in his fingers and feeds it into Blaine's babbling lips.

"Shush. It's lovely; amazing. I love you. Thank you."

Blaine smiles and chews as Kurt passes him one of the two coffees. They sip quietly. The coffee is the perfect temperature, with steam still trickling from the lid, rising in puffs onto their cheeks as they drink. Eventually Blaine, reaching for half a croissant, breaks the reverie.

"What time do you have to be back?"

Kurt picks up the other half, brushing at the flakes of butter pastry which tumble into his lap.

"In an hour or two, I guess. You're coming too? It's only a practice, and there'll be free time later. We could have lunch?"

Blaine smiles at the flushed happiness in Kurt's shimmering voice, but when he speaks he makes sure he sounds firm enough.

"Kurt, you have Nationals the day after tomorrow. Your friends need your concentration right now."

Kurt stutters, taken slightly aback.

"But…but I thought…"

"There'll be plenty of time for us, but after you make me the proudest boyfriend alive by performing on that stage. I'll come, and be there for you in any way you need, but this is about you and your friends now. Imagine how happy they are as well. You're not going to miss out on any part of this because of me."

Kurt stops and considers the words; Blaine is right, of course.

"Okay; but still, I want you there."

Blaine smiles. He leans over and kisses Kurt with full crummy lips.

"I wouldn't want to be anywhere else."

Then suddenly he stands up, shuffling the napkins together, catching hold of the scraps in one hand and seizing his coffee.

"Come on; we've got two hours in New York. We are not going to waste them sitting around here."

He throws the litter into the bin as Kurt slides out from under the covers and finishes dressing himself. Then he turns back, but pauses. They're facing each other, across the bed, just as they had been eight hours ago.

"Blaine…"

Kurt starts, faltering but feeling the words rising in him inexorably.

"…last night…was…"

Blaine is smiling at him, moving to pick up his bag and keys. His hair in still scattered everywhere, but Kurt likes it without the gel, free and falling.

"Perfect?"

Blaine offers, stretching out one hand to Kurt and opening the door with the other. Kurt smiles back. He takes the hand, picking up his phone, bag, jacket and flowers. The scent of the roses is still strong, and embraces him as his phone slips into his pocket, holding all the words that have set them so free. They've come so far, from lying on that locker room floor, to that hospital bed, and lying together last night, and now the future has started. Perfectly.

"Yeah."

* * *

><p><strong>Thank you, to all my readers, for everything :D you've been a delight to write for and I cherish every hit my story gets. You guys are the best!<strong>

**Goodbye for now :'(**

**xxx**


	38. Thanks

**I promised to do this a couple of chapters back - just to say a very humble thank you to all of you who have supported me in writing this!**

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